«l 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


\\  GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


A 


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ALDEN'S  CYCLOPEDIA 


UxVivERSAL  Literature 


PRESENTIKO 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES,  AND  SPECIMENS 

FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF  EMINENT  AUTHORS 

OF  ALL  AGES  AND  ALL  NATIONS 


VOL.  I 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN    B.    ALDEN,    PUBLISHER 

1885 


copyright,  1885, 

r.  I 

JOHN     B.     ALDEN 


TROwa 

puinTrfta  uno  dookbin[»h«  compami, 

New  YOAK. 


CONTENTS    OF    VOL. 


PAOH. 

Abbot,  Ezra,  {Amer.,  1819-1884.)— Tin-  BililioRraphy  of  a 
Future  Life,  -    11 

Abbott,  Jacob,  yAmer.,  1803-1870  )—  C^-mfessiou  of  Wrong. 
—Deity  as  Manifested.— The  Last  Stip|)f»r. — Property 
as  a  Means  of  Doing  Good. — At  the  Countiy  Store,         14 

Abbott,  John  S.  C,  {Amer  ,  1805-1877.)— Tlie  Character  of 
Napoleon.— The  Parting  of  Napoleon  and  Josephine. 
—Burial  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena.— Philosophy  of 
the  French  Revolution.— Death  of  Robespierre,  22 

Abbott,  Lyman.  (Amer.^  1835-  .)— The  Destruction  of 
the  Cities  of  the  Plain.— The  Jesuits,  -  -         89 

ABeckktt,  GiusertA.,  (jB/ifyi.,  1810-ia56.)  -  •    33 

Abklahu,  Peter,  {French,  107'9-1142.)— Letter  to  Heloise,    34 

ABEiiCROMBiE,  John,  (Scot.,  1781-1841.) -On  Mathematical 
Reasoning —Theories  of  Morals.— Hume's  Theory — 
Paley's  Theory.  —Theory  of  Adam  Smith.— Ahercrom- 
bie's  Theory,  37 

About,  Edmond,  {Frencli.,  18:i8-1885  )— The  Spiritual  and 
the  Temporal  Power  of  the  Pope.— Character  of  Pope 
Pius  IX.— The  outlook  in  1859,  -  -  -43 

Adams,  Abigail,  (Amcr.,  1741-1818.)— Life  in  France.— 
Presentation  at  the  British  Court.— Washington  City 
in  1800.- At  the  White  House,  47 

Adams,  Charles  Francis,  {Amer. ,  1807-  .  i -The  Career 
of  John  Adams.— The  Career  of  John  Quincy  Adams,    56 

Adams,  Hannah,  (Amer.,  17.50-1833.)— Church  and  State  in 
Massachusetts.— Merits  of  the  Massachu.setts  Colo- 
nists.—The  Hebrew  Nationality,  -  -    60 

Adams,  John,  (Amer.,  1732-1836. )— The  Governments  of 
the  Thirteen  States.— The  Outlook  in  1787.— Early 
Plans  for  Life  —Upon  Franklin  and  Others.— The 
Declaration  of  Independence.— Character  of  New 
Englanders.— The  Seal  for  the  United  States.— Mili- 
tary Discipline  and  Obedience.— Cost  of  Living  in 
Pliiladelphia.— Hopes  and  Forecastings,        -  -         64 

Adams.  John  Quincy,  (Amer.,  1767-1848.)— On  Secession 
and  Nullification.  -Our  Ebal  and  Gerizim.— Dermot 
MacMorrogh.-  The  Wants  of  Man.— To  a  Sun-Dial,         79 

Addison,  Joseph,  (EihjI..  1G73-1719.)— The  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough —Marlborough  at  Blenheim.— Upon  Kilmund 
Spenser.— On  Italy.— Ode  on  the  Creator.- -Ilynm  on 
the  Divine  Care —Literary  Vermin.— Hints  for  Char- 
latans.—Special  Periods  of  Devotion.— The  Distribu- 
tion of  Human  Calamities.— A  Visit  to  Westminster 
Abbey.— A  Visit  to  the  Royal  Exclwinge.--The  Dissec- 


GS4980 


4  CONTEN'TS. 

PAGE. 

tiou  of  a  Beau's  Head.— The  Transmigrations  of  Pug, 
tlie  Monkey.— The  Death  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly,  90 

.^IscHiNES,  (Greek,  389-314  B.C.)— Oration  against  Ctesi- 
phon, 134 

^scHYiiUS,  (Greek,  525-455  B.C.) — The  Binding  of  Prome- 
theus.—The  Soliloquy  of  Prometheus.— The  Warning 
of  Hermes  to  Prometheus.— The  Beaco'n  lights.— The 
Doom  of  Clytemnffistra,  ....        126 

-■Esop,  (Greek,  About  620  B.C.) — Jupiter  and  the  Frogs. — 
The  Trees  and  the  Axe.— The  Old  Man  and  Death.— 
The  Bu-ds,  the  Beasts,  and  the  Bat.— The  Belly  and 
the  other  Membei-s. — The  Fox  and  the  Hedgehog. — 
The  Eagle  and  the  Arrow.— Tlie  Oak  and  the  Wood- 
cutters.—The  Wolf  and  the  Lamb.— The  Shepherd- 
Boy  and  the  Wolf  .—The  Bundle  of  Sticks,  -  .  133 

Agassiz,  Louts,  (Srviss,  1807-1873.)— The  Growth  of  Coral 
Reefs.— Metamorphoses  of  Animals,  -  -  -       137 

AauiLAR,  Grace,  (Engl.,  1816-1847.)—  Mother  and  Daughter,  145 

AiKiN,  John,  (Engl.,  1747-1822.)  -  -148 

AiKiN,  Lucy,  (Engl.,  1781-1864.)       -  -  -  -       148 

AiNSWORTH,  William  Harrison,  (Engl,  1805-1882.)  -  149 

AiRD,  Thomas,  (Scot.,  1803-1876.)— A  Vision  of  the  Evil 
Spirit,  -------        150 

Akenside,  Mark,  (Engl.,  1721-1770.)— The  Divine  Idea  in 
the  Imagination.  — The  Imagination  in  History.- 
Wealtli  of  the  Imagination.  —Ode  on  the  Use  of  Poetry. 
—Inscription  for  a  Column  at  Runnimede.— Inscrip- 
tion for  a  Statue  of  Chaucer,  -  -  -         153 

Alamani,  Luigi,  (Italmn,  1495-1556.)— Sonnet  to  Italy,      -  158 

Alcazar,  BALTAZARDE,(Spaju'i>7i,  Sixteenth  Century.)— On 
Sleep, 159 

Alcott,  .\mos  Bronson,  (Amer.,  1799-  .) — Concord  and 
its  Surroundings.  —  Ephemeral  Reading.  —  Idealism 
and  Idealists.  —  Preaching.— Dogmas.— Conscience- 
Spirituality.  —  Personal  Identity.  —  Significance  of 
Sleep.— Conversation.— Orphic  Sayings,  ■  -  160 

Alcott,  Locisa  SLiY,  (Amer.,  18:B3-  .)— Meg,  Jo,  Beth, 
and  Amy.— What  the  Swallows  Did,  -  -    171 

Alden,  Joseph,  (Amer.,  1807-  .)— Conceptions  of  the 
Infinite,  ......         isi 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  (Amer.,  1836-  .)— Prelude  to 
Clotli  of  Gold.— L'Envoie  to  Cloth  of  Gold.— The  Ci-es 
cent  and  the  Cross.— A  Tiu-kish  Legend.— Little  Maud. 
—Egypt.— Edgar  Allan  Poe.— December.— By  the 
Potomac— Before  the  Rain.— After  the  Rain.  -    182 

Alexander,  Archibald.  (Amer.,  1772-1851.)  -      .^  189 

Alexander,  James  Waddell,  (.4me)-..  1804-1859.)— On  Ex- 
temporaneous Preaching,  -  -  -  -    189 

Alexander,  Joseph  Addison,  (Amer.,  1800-1860.)— The 
Downfall  of  Babylonia,  -  -  -         191 

Alfonso  II.  of  Castile,  (SjMn.,  d.  1190.  i— Parting  and 
Meeting,  -  -  .  -  -  .  -    198 

Alfonso  X.  of  Castile,  (Span..  1221-12*4.)— Letter  to  Alon- 


CONTENTS.  -5 

PAGE. 

zo  Perez  de  Guzman.— Upon  Tyrants  and  tlieir  Ways. 
—Education  of  Princesses.— Philosophei-s  Stone,  198 

Alford,  Henry,  (Engl.,  1810-1871.)— Prologue  to  Collected 
Poems.— Epilogue  to  the  School  of  the  Heart.— Hymn 
for  St.  Andrew's  Day.— A  Christian  Household.— On 
Providence,  ......    2M 

Alfred  the  Great,  (Engl.,  849-901.)— Alfred's  Plans.— 
Poem  on  Change,  .  .  -  -  .         209 

Alfieri,  Vittorio,  (Ital.,  1749-1803.)— Dedication  to  Agis. 
—Dedication  to  The  First  Brutus.— Dedication  to  The 
Second  Brutus.— Extracts  from  The  First  Brutus,     -    214 

Aloer.  William  Rounseville,  (Amer.,  1823-  .)— Prob- 
lem of  a  Future  Life.— The  Here  and  the  Hereafter,  224 

Alison,  Rev.  Archibald,  (Scot.,  1757-1839.)— Effect  of 
Sounds  as  Modified  by  Association.— Associations  of 
the  Past.— The  Lessons  of  Autiunn,  •  227 

Alison,  Sir  Archibald,  (Scot.  1792-1867.)— Character  of 
Louis  XIV.  of  France.— Character  of  James  II.  of 
England.— Epochs  in  the  French  Revolution.— The 
Revolutionary  Triumvirate. — Clemency  of  Napoleon. 
—Close  of  the  Battle  of  Marengo.— The  Conflagration 
of  Moscow.— The  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons.— 
Epochs  in  European  History,  1815-52.— Scott,  Byron, 
Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge,  -  -         231 

Allerton.  Ellen  Palmer,  (Amer.,  1835-  .)— My  .\m- 
bition. — Walls  of  Corn,       ...  -  -    256 

Allibone,  Samuel  .\ustin,  (Anier.,  1810-  .)— Pui-pose  of 
the  Dictionary  of  English  Literature,  -  -         2.58 

Allingham,  William,  (Brit.,  1828-  .)— To  the  Night- 
ingales, .......    261 

Allston,  Washington,  (Amer.,  1779-1843.)  —  America  to 
England.- Sonnet  on  the  French  Revolution.— Sonnet 
on  Art.- SonuetouColeridge.— Onlmmortality,       -    20^ 

AmadisofGaul.- Amadis  and  Oriana,  -  -  -         2<37 

Ames.  Fisher,  (Amer.,  1758-1808).— Early  American  Lit- 
erature.—Character  of  AVashington.— Character  of 
Hamilton, 270 

Amory,  Thomas,  (Brit,  1692-1789.)— Buncle and  Marinda,    27'J 

Anacreon,  (Greek,  563-478,  B.C.)— On  his  Lyre.— The 
Weapon  of  Beauty.— Cupid  as  a  Guest.— The  Ideal 
Portrait.— In  Praise  of  Wine.— Plea  for  Drinking.— 
Moderation  in  Wine.— Upon  Spring.— To  the  Cicada. — 
To  the  Swallow.— Approaching  .\ge.— Live  while  we 
Live.— Looking  Backward  and  Forward,     -  -         283 

.\NDERSEN,  Hans  Christian,  (Dan.,  1805-1875.; — The 
Dying  Child.— Jenny  Land  in  Copenhagen. — The  Ugly 
Little  Duck, 292 

Andrews,  Lancelot,  (Engl.,  15.55-1625.)— Upon  Angels 
and  Men, 309 

Anslo,  Reinier,  (Dutch,  1022-1699.) — The  Plague  of  Naples,  311 

Anstey,  Christopher,  (Engl.,  1724-1805.)— The  Public 
Breakfast. 312 

ANTnoLOGY,  The  Greek.— Extracts  from  the  Poems,  815 


6  CON'l'ENTH. 

I'AQE. 

Anthon,  Charles.  (Amcr.,  1797-1867.)        -  -  -       331 

Aquinas,  Thomas,  (ItaZ.,  1224-1274.)— Primacy  of  the  Pope,  332 

Arabian  Nights,  The.— Exordium  to  the  Arabian  Nights. 
— Shaliriar,  Sliahzeman  and  Sclielierazade.— Tlie  Aa- 
crii)tion.— The  Fisherman  and  theAfrite.— Conclusion,  338 

iRBLAY  d",  Frances  Burxey,  (Engl.,  1752-1840.)- Frances 

Burney  r.t  Co;-.rt.— Resigning  from  Court.— Macaulay 

upon  Madame  D'Arblay. —George  III.  and  Frances 

Burney.  —  Attempt   upon    the    King's    Life.  —  Thii 

^^/  Braughton  Family. — Cliaracter  of   Mr.   Delville.— A 

Fit  of  Rheumatism,         ....  -       353 

Arbuthnot,  John,  (Brit.,  1667-173.i.)— John  Bull,  Nic.Frog, 
and  Hocus.— John  Bull's  Mother.— John  Bull's  Sister 
Peg.       -..,----  369 

Abgensola,  Bartolojieo,  (Span.,  1566-163;?.)  —  Sonnet 
on  Providence,  .....       374 

Abgensola,  Lupeecio,  (Span.,  1565-1633.) — Mary  Mag- 
dalen, -  -  -  -  -  -  -  376 

Argyll,  Dukk  of,  (Scot.,  1823-  .)— The  Supernatural 
arid  the  Natural.— Vital  Forces  and  Matter.— Man's 
■Works  and  those  of  the  Creator.— The  Theory  of 
Development.— The  Origin  of  Man.— The  Perpetuity  of 
Man.— The  Antiquity  of  Man.— The  Hebrew  Chro- 
nology.—The  Deluge.— Man  as  the  Representative  of 
the  Supernatural,  ...  375 

Ariosto,  Lddovico,  (Ital,  1474-1533).— Orlando's  Battle- 
Avith  the  Trees.— Orlando  i-estored  to  his  Senses,  398 

Aristophanes,  (Greek,  440-380  B.C.)-  The  Bird  Chorus.— 
Prometheus  and  PeisthetEerus. — Neptune,  Hercules, 
and  the  Thracian  God, — In  the  School  of  Socrates.— 
Bacchus,  Euripides,  and  Jischylus.— The  Knights 
praise  their  Forefathers. — The  Knights  praise  their 
Steeds.— The  Chorus  of  'Women.— 'U'omeu's  Capa- 
biUties,         -------       898 

Aristotle,  (Greek,  384-322  B.C.)— Sense,  Memory,  and 
Foresight. — Experience,  Art,  and  'Wisdom. — The  Ex- 
istence and  Attributes  of  the  Deity. — The  Ideal  State. — 
Classes  in  the  State. — The  Middle  Class  the  Ruling 
One.— Laws  and  Public  Officers.- The  Necessity  of 
Good  Water, 423 

Armstrong,  John,  (Brit.,  1709-1770.)— Over-indulgence  in 
Wine.  —The  Mutations  of  Time,       -  ■  435 

Arndt,  Ernst  Moritz,  (Germ.,  1769- 1860. 1— The  German 
Fatherland,  ....  4:^7 

Arnold,  Edwin,  (iin^ri.,  1831-  .) — Buddha  and  Buddh- 
ism.—Buddha,  or  Gautama. — The  Light  of  Asia. — 
Tlie  Immeasurable.  —  Dharma. — Karma.- Nirv&na.— 
After  Death  in  Arabia,  ....  439 

Arnold.  JIatthew,  (Engl.,  1822-  .)— Children  Asleep. — 
Lines  Written  in  Kensington  (iarden. — The  Remnant 
in  the  United  States.— Ralph  V>.  aUlo  Emerson,  -      itH 

Arnold,  Thomas,  (Engl.,  1795-1842.)— Taking  Life  in  Earn- 
est.— The  Siege  of  Genoa  in  1800.— Hannibal  the  Car- 
thagenian. — Christian  PoUtics,         ...  ^73 


y    k^^ot^]...^ 


PREFACE . 


The  design  of  this  Cyclopedia  of  Univer- 
sal Literature  is  to  present  in  a  convenient 
form,  and  at  a  very  moderate  cost,  a  complete 
survey  of  the  written  hterature  of  all  ages 
and  of  all  peoples.  It  will  comprise  biograph- 
ical sketches  of  the  men  Avho  by  their  writings 
have  made  a  distinctive  mark  in  the  history 
of  human  culture  and  progress,  together  with 
such  extracts  from  their  writings  as  shall  be 
suflQcient  to  give  an  adequate  rei^resentation 
of  the  characteristics  of  the  authors.  This 
Cyclopedia  will  not  be  merely  a  collection  of 
"Elegant  Extracts"  or  "Gems  of  Thought" 
culled  from  writings  which  have  come  to  be 
classics  in  their  various  languages.  The 
names  of  soine  men  will  appear  who  Avere 
great,  not  absolutely,  bvit  only  relatively. 
Such  men,  for  example,  as  Diderot,  Erasmus, 
and  Paine,  whose  works  exerted  a  powerful 
influence  in  their  own  day,  and  thus  upon 
aftertimes,  although  had  they  appeared  in 
an  earlier  or  a  later  century  they  Avould  soon 
have  been  forgotten. 

The  literature  embodied  in  foreign  lan- 
guages can  here  be  presented  only  in  transla- 
tions ;  and  the  best  translations  can  be  only 
inadequate  representations  of  the  originals. 
This  is  especially  the  case  in  poetry,  where 
form  and  manner  is  hardly  less  important 
than  svibject  and  matter.  The  best  translator 
of  Homer  or  JEschylus  or  Aristophanes,  of 
Virgil  or  Lucretius  or  Horace,  of  Dante  or 


8  PREFACE. 

Ariostu,  of  Goethe  or  Schiller,  must  fail  more 
or  less  in  making  his  avithor  speak  in  another 
language  just  as  he  spake  in  his  own.  Some 
translator  will  catch  and  reproduce  one  fea- 
ture, another  will  reproduce  another  feature. 
Whenever,  therefore,  there  have  been  inany 
good  English  translations  of  any  notable  au- 
thor, selections  will  be  made  from  several  of 
these  translations. 

The  literature  of  our  own  day,  and  especially 
of  our  own  country,  will  occupy  in  this  Cyclo- 
pedia a  more  prominent  place  than  it  holds  in 
any  other  work  of  its  class.  The  conductors 
have  secured  the  co-operation  of  those  who 
have  made  contemporary  writers  subjects  of 
special  thought  and  studj' ;  and  the  results  of 
their  best  thought  and  study  will  be  presented 
in  these  pages.  It  is  hoped  that  this  Cyclo- 
pedia OF  Unr^ersal  Literature  will  be  as 
full  and  carefully  studied  for  this  current 
Nineteenth  Century  as  for  any  preceding 
century  of  human  culture  and  progress. 

It  has  been  determined,  after  mature  con- 
sideration, that  the  alphabetical  arrangement 
of  subjects  presents  more  advantages  and 
fewer  disadvantages  than  any  other ;  it  will 
therefore  be  strictly  followed.  The  names  of 
authors  will  appear  in  their  proper  alphabeti- 
cal order,  irrespective  of  their  period,  nation- 
ality, or  the  character  of  their  Avritings. 
Whatever  is  said  of  any  one  man  will  be  said 
in  connection  with  his  name.  Thus,  the  Novels, 
Poems,  Historical,  Biographical,  and  Criti- 
cal works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  will  all  be  con- 
pidered  together  under  his  name,  and  not  in 
separate  parts  of  the  Cyclopedia.  Wherever 
special  works,  as  distinguished  from  the  per- 
sonality of  the  authors,  require  mention,  they 
will  appear  in  their  alphabetical  place.  Thus 
there  will  be  separate  articles  on  the  Amadis 
de  Gaul,  the  Greek  Anthology,  the  Arabian 


PREFACE.  !l 

Nights,  the  Dies  Irce,  the  Federalist,  the 
Nibelungen  Lied,  and  numerous  other  works, 
which  would  not  be  looked  for  under  the 
name  of  any  particular  author. 

The  idea  of  this  Cyclopedia  has  been  long 
under  contemplation  by  the  Publisher,  and 
its  plan  is  now  fully  matured,  so  that  the 
work  can  be  pushed  forward  rapidly  until  its 
completion.  It  is  not  proposed  to  lix  any  defi- 
nite liinit  as  to  the  number  of  volumes  of 
which  it  shall  consist.  It  will  not  be  unnec- 
essarily expanded  so  that  its  bulk  or  cost 
would  render  it  unavailable  by  the  great  body 
of  the  reading  public;  nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
will  it  be  so  curtailed,  in  respect  of  the  au- 
thors embraced  or  the  fulness  with  which 
they  are  treated,  as  to  render  it  inadequate  for 
the  purpose  for  which  it  is  designed. 


CYCLOPEDIA 


OF 


UNIVEESAL    LITERATURE. 


ABBOT,  Ezra,  IjL.D.,  an  American  schol- 
ar, born  at  Jackson,  Maine,  in  1819,  died  at 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  March  21,  1884.  He  grad- 
uated at  Bowdoin  College  in  1840 ;  taught  in 
various  academies  until  1847,  when  he  took 
up  his  residence  at  Cambridge,  where  he  was 
a  teacher  in  the  High  School  until  1852.  He 
devoted  himself  especially  to  private  studies 
in  philology  and  bibliography,  reading  in  the 
libraries  in  and  around  Bostoft.  In  1856  he 
was  appointed  Assistant  Librarian  in  Harvard 
College,  his  special  duty  being  that  of  classify- 
ing and  cataloguing  the  books  of  the  library. 
He  occupied  this  position  until  1872,  Avhen  he 
was  made  Bussey  Professor  of  N.  T.  Criticism 
and  Interpretation  in  the  Harvard  Divinity 
School.  His  especial  forte  was  bibliography, 
upon  which  subject  he  was  perhaps  the  best- 
acknowledged  American  authority,  and  he 
had  few  equals  in  other  countries.  Most  of 
his  literary  labor  a]ipears  in  the  form  of  con- 
tributions to  editions  of  the  collected  works 
of  others,  or  in  periodicals  of  the  day.  For 
Worcester's  Dictionary  he  laboriously  revised 
the  pronouncing  vocabulary  of  Grreek,  Latin, 
and  Scriptural  Propei-  Names,  which,  savs 
Worcester,  "will,  it  is  believed,  be  found  to 
be  more  correct  than  any  bctV )rp  published." 


12  EZRA  ABBOT. 

His  Prolegomena  to  Tischendorf's  eighth  edi- 
tion of  his  New  Testament  is  of  high  critical 
value.  The  historico-critical  volume  on  The 
Authorship  of  the  Fourth  Gospel  (1880)  is  his 
main  separate  work ;  for  his  exhaustive  Lit- 
erature of  the  Doctrine  of  a  Future  Life  (1864), 
though  equivalent  in  bulk  to  a  moderate  vol- 
ume, was  prepared  merely  as  an  Appendix  to 
William  Rounseville  Alger's  Critical  History 
of  the  Doctrine  of  a  Future  Life.  This  work 
of  Mr.  Abbot  contains  the  titles  of  more  than 
5000  books  and  treatises  upon  the  general  sub- 
ject, all  classified  under  suitable  heads.  In 
the  preface  to  this  work  Mr.  Abbot  says : 

THE   BIBLIOGRAPHY   OF   A   FUTURE   LIFE. 

In  deoidinjf  upon  the  form  of  the  Bibliography, 
1  could  not  hesitate  to  prefer  a  classed  catalogue, 
with  the  titles  to  each  section  arranged  chronolog- 
ically  The  subjects  embraced  in  the  Bib- 
liography— the  Nature,  Origin,  and  Destiny  of 
the  Soul — belong  partly  to  Philosophy,  and  partly 
to  Religion.  They  are  accordingly  discussed  not 
only  in  the  sjiecial  treatises  relating  to  them,  but 
in  general  works  on  metaphysics,  on  natural  relig- 
ion, on  Christian  doctrines,  and  on  various  relig- 
ions and  superstitions.  The  question  of  matei'i- 
alism  and  the  relation  between  the  human  and  the 
brute  mind  are  also  treated  of  by  writers  on  phys- 
iology and  natural  history. 

To  include  in  the  catalogue  all  of  these  general 
works  was,  of  coui'se.  impossilile;  but  many  of 
the  more  important  have  been  noticed.  This  is 
particularly  the  case  in  that  part  of  the  bibliogra- 
phy which  relates  to  the  opinions  concerning  the 
soul,  which  have  prevailed  among  heathen  na- 
tions. That  works  on  the  Hindu  philosophy  and 
religion  have  been  given  with  a  good  degree  of 
fulness  will  not  excite  surprise,  since  the  doctrine 
of  transmigration  lies  at  the  centre  of  both  Brah- 
manism  and  Buddhism.  The  books  held  sacred  by 
the  followers  of  Confucius,  on  the  other  hand, 
contain  very  little  concerning  the  future  life,  a 
subject  on   which    that   philosopher   discouraged 


EZ1{A  ABBOT.  13 

Inquiries.  But  for  the  conveuiciice  of  the  student 
who  may  wish  at  least  to  verify  that  remarkable 
fact,  it  appeared  desirable  to  include  them  in  the 
catalogue. 

As  to  special  treatises  on  the  subject  of  the  bib- 
liography, written  in  Greek  or  Latin,  and  in  the 
principal  languages  of  Europe  (except  those  of  the 
Slavic  family),  I  have  intended  to  admit  the  titles 
of  all  of  any  importance  which  have  fallen  under 
my  notice.  This  remark,  however,  does  not  ap- 
ply to  a  few  classes  of  works  only  incidentally  con- 
nected with  the  proper  subjects  of  the  catalogue: 
as  those  on  Death,  the  Descent  of  Christ  into 
Hades,  the  Resurrection  of  Christ,  and  modern 
"  Spiiitualism."' under  which  heads  merely  a  se- 
lection of  titles  is  purposely  given.  Single  ser- 
mons have  been  for  the  most  part  omitted,  unless 
the  production  of  eminent  writers,  or  belonging 
to  a  controversy,  or  remarkable  for  some  pecul- 
iarity. As  to  Oriental  works  I  have,  for  the  most 
part,  contented  myself  with  noticing  the  best 
translations. 

While  some  may  regret  that  a  single  pamphlet 
has  been  neglected,  others  probably  will  complain 
of  excess.  "What  is  the  use,"'  it  maybe  said, 
"  of  collecting  the  titles  of  so  many  old  obsolete 
books  ?  "  I  answer  ;  The  study  of  fossil  remains 
in  theological  and  metaphysical  literature  is  as  in- 
teresting and  as  instructive  to  the  philosopher  as 
palaeontology  is  to  the  naturalist.  In  pursuing 
his  researches  in  this  field,  one  may  indeed  disin- 
ter strange  monsters,  but  these  representatives  of 
tribes  now  extinct  doubtless  fulfilled  their  place 
in  the  economy  of  Providence,  and  were  suited  to 
the  times  in  which  they  appeared,  as  truly  as  the 
great  geological  saurians.  Wc  marvel  at  the  fol- 
lies and  superstitions  of  the  past  ;  but  when  the 
philosophy  and  theology  of  the  nineteenth  cent- 
ury shall  have  become  petrified,  posterity  may 
regard  some  of  their  phenomena  with  equal  won- 
der. I  have  therefore  aimed  to  give  a  full  exhibi- 
tion of  the  subject,  without  partiality  towards  the 
Old  or  the  New. — Literatnra  of  the  Doctrine  of  a 
Future  Life. 


14  JACOB  ABBOTT. 

ABBOTT,  Jacob,  an  American  educator  and 
author,  born  at  Hallowell,  Maine,  Nov.  14, 
1803  ;  died  Oct.  31,  1879.  He  studied  at  Bow- 
doin  College  and  at  Andover  Theological 
Seminary,  and  was  Professor  of  Mathematics 
and  Natural  Philosophy  in  Amherst  College 
from  1825  to  1829,  when  he  took  charge  of  the 
Mount  Vernon  Female  School  in  Boston. 
From  1834  to  1838  he  was  minister  of  a  Con- 
gregational church  in  Eoxbury,  Mass.  Sub- 
sequently he  conducted  a  school  for  boys  in 
New  York.  During  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  he  was  actively  engaged  in  authorship. 
His  works  in  all  number  not  less  than  300, 
most  of  them  being  of  small  size,  and  written 
for  the  young.  Many  of  them  are  in  the  form 
of  fiction,  and  are  grouped  into  series  of  sev- 
eral volumes,  with  a  common  set  of  charac- 
ters running  through  the  groups.  Among 
these  are  the  RoUo  Books,  28  vols. ;  the  Lucy 
Books,  6  vols. ;  the  Jonas  Books,  6  vols. :  Har- 
per's  Story  Books,  36  vols.  ;  Franconia  Stories, 
10  vols. ;  The  Gay  Family,  12  vols.  The  Young 
Christian  series,  4  vols. ,  which  preceded  most 
of  the  others  is  of  a  larger  size.  He  also  wrote 
about  twenty  biographies  of  noted  persons  in 
ancient  and  modern  history ;  Science  for  the 
Young,  comprising  popular  treatises  on  Heat, 
Light,  Force,  and  Water,  and  Land.  He  also 
edited  several  historical  text-books  and  com- 
piled a  series  of  School  Readers.  Our  selec- 
tions are  mainly  from  his  more  notable  books  ; 

CONFESSION    OF   WEONG. 

1  wish  to  point  out  something  in  the  nature  and 
effects  of  confession:  I  mean  its  power  to  bring 
peace  and  happiness  back  to  the  heart,  when  the 

conscience   has  been  wounded  by  sin 

Confession  of  sin  has  an  ahnost  magic  power  in 
restoring  peace  of  mind.  Providence  seems  to 
have  implanted  this  principle  in  the  human  heart 
for  the  express  purpose  of  having  us  act  upon  it 


JAC  OB  ABBOTT.  16 

He  has  so  formed  us  that  when  we  lio-ve  done 
wrong,  we  cannot  feel  at  peace  again  until  we 
have  acknowledged  our  wrong  to  the  person 
against  whom  it  has  been  done.  And  this  ac- 
knowledgment of  it  removes  the  uneasiness  as 
effectually  as  fire  i-emoves  cold,  or  as  water  extin. 
guishes  fire.  It  operates  in  all  cases,  small  as 
well  as  great,  and  is  infallible  in  its  power.  And 
yet  how  slowly  do  young  persons,  and  even  old 
persons,  learn  to  use  it.  The  remedies  for  almost 
every  external  evil  are  soon  discovered,  and  are  at 
once  applied ;  but  the  remedy  for  that  uneasiness 
of  mind  which  results  from  having  neglected  some 
duty  or  committed  some  sin,  and  which  consists 
in  simple  confession  of  it  to  the  person  injured — 
how  slowly  it  is  learned  and  how  reluctantly 
practised. — The  Younu  (JhnsUan. 

THE    DEITY   AS   MANIFESTED. 

The  Unseen  Divinity  itself,  m  its  purely  spirit- 
ual form,  we  cannot  conceive  i.f.  They  who  at- 
tempt to  do  it  will  find,  on  a  caieful  analysis  of 
the  mental  operation  that  it  is  t'i\e  Visible  Uni- 
verse itself  that  they  picture  to  their  minds  when, 
in  prayej\  they  endeavor  to  form  an  abstract  con- 
ception of  the  Deity  which  jieivades  it.  Others  in 
imagination,  look  upward,  and  form  a  confused 
and  an  absurd  idea  of  a  monarcli  on  a  throne  of 
gold,  adorned  with  crf)wn  and  sceptre,  and  sitting 
in  a  fancied  region  which  they  call  Heaven.  This 
is  a  delusion  which  we  have  already  endeavored 
to  dispel.  Driven  from  this  imagination,  the  soul 
roves  throughout  the  universe  among  suns  and 
stars,  or  over  the  busy  surface  of  the  earth,  seek 
ing  in  vam  for  some  conceivable  image  of  the 
Deity,  some  form  on  which  the  thought  can  rest. 
and  toward  which  the  feelings  can  concentrate. 
Tt  looks,  however,  in  vain.  God  manifests  hini- 
self  indeed,  in  the  blazing  sun,  in  the  fiery  cojriet, 
and  in  the  verdure  and  the  bloom  of  the  bound- 
less regions  of  the  earth.  But  these  are  not  the 
avenues  through  which  a  soul,  burdened  with  its 
sins,  would  desire  to  approach  its  Maker.  The 
Gospel  solves  the  difficulty.  "  It  is  by  Jesus 
Christ  that  we  have  access  to  the  Father.^"     This 


16  J  AC  OB  ABBOTT. 

vivid  exhibition  of  His  character — this  personifica- 
tion of  His  moral  attributes — opens  to  us  the  way. 
Here  we  see  a  manifestation  of  the  Divinity,  an 
Image  of  the  Livisible  God,  whicli  come,  as  it  were, 
down  to  us.  It  meets  our  feeble  faculties  with  a 
personification  exactly  adapted  to  their  wants,  so 
that  the  soul,  when  pressed  by  the  trials  and  diffi- 
culties of  its  condition,  when  overwhelmed  with 
sorrow,  or  bowed  down  by  remorse,  or  earnestly 
longing  for  holiness,  will  pass  by  all  the  other  out- 
ward exhibitions  of  the  Deitj",  and  approach  the 
Invisible  Supreme,  through  tliat  manifestation  of 
Himself  which  he  has  made  in  the  person  of  Jesus 
Christ,  His  Son,  our  Saviour. — The  Corner  Stone. 

THE   LAST  SUPPER. 

"And  when  they  ha^  sung  an  hymn  they  went 
out  into  the  Mount  ol  Olives."  The  Saviour  and 
His  disciples  stood  around  their  table  and  sang  an 
hymn.  It  was  tlie  Redeemer's  last  public  act — 
His  final  farewell  PTe  had  presided  over  many  an 
assembly,  guidiiig  their  devotions  or  explaining  to 
them  the  principles  of  religion.  Sometimes  the 
thronging  multitudes  had  gathered  around  Him  on 
the  sea-shore ;  sometimes  they  had  crowded  into  a 
private  dwelling;  and  He  sat  in  the  synagogue, 
and  explained  the  Law  to  the  congregation  as- 
sembled there.  But  the  last  moments  had  now 
come.  He  was  presiding  in  the  last  assembly 
which,  by  His  mortal  powers,  He  should  ever  ad- 
dress; and  when  the  hour  for  separation  came, 
tJ)e  last  tones  in  which  His  voice  uttered  itself, 
were  heard  in  song. — Wliat  could  have  been  their 
hymn  ?  Its  sentiments  and  feelings,  they  who 
can  appreciate  the  occasion  may  perhaps  con- 
reive;  but  what  were  its  words?  Beloved  Disci- 
ple, why  didst  thou  not  record  them  ?  They 
should  have  been  sung  in  every  nation  and  lan- 
guage and  clime.  We  would  have  fixed  them  in 
our  hearts  and  taught  them  to  our  children;  and 
whenever  we  came  together  to  commemorate  our 
Redeemer's  sufferings,  we  would  never  have  sep- 
arated without  singing  His  parting  Hymn. — The 
Corner  Stone. 


JACOB  ABBOTT.  17 

PROPEUTY   AS   A   MEAXS  OF   DOING   GOOD. 

This  gr^nt  truth  that  he  who  acquires  property 
by  any  legitimate  and  honest  business,  instead  of 
taking  from  the  community  the  amount  which  he 
acquires,  actually  confers  upon  the  community 
itself  a  benefit  equal  to  that  which  he  receives,  and 
makes  them  richer,  while  he  enriches  himself,  is 
not  only  sustained  by  the  theoretical  considera- 
tions which  have  been  adduced,  but  is  abundantly 
confirmed  by  practical  observation.  Where  an  en- 
terprising and  active  man,  with  talents,  industry, 
and  capital,  goes  into  any  community,  and  com- 
mences operations  there,  he  generally  not  only 
prospers  himself,  but  he  diffuses  a  general  pros- 
perity all  around  him.  Dwellings  multiply,  the 
comforts  and  conveniences  of  life  are  increased, 
industry  increases,  schools  improve,  and  children 
are  better  clothed  and  better  fed.  However  self- 
isli  the  man  may  be  whose  enterprise  and  activity 
produces  this  general  improvement,  and  however 
far  from  his  thoughts  all  desire  or  intention  to 
produce, it  may  have  been,  the  effect  will  inevita- 
bly follow,  through  the  operation  of  inflexible 
and  universal  laws,  which  no  management  on  his 
part  can  counteract  or  essentially  impede.  In  a 
word,  the  true  state  of  the  case  may  be  summed 
up  thus:  A  man  cannot  prosper  in  any  honest 
business  without  benefiting  the  community  as 
well  as  himself.  For  he  cannot  induce  men  to 
deal  with  him  without  offering  them  an  advan- 
tage; and,  taking  all  the  transactions  of  life 
together,  the  advantages  which  men  offer  to  oth- 
ers must,  on  the  whole,  be  equal  to  those  which 
they  receive  themselves.  Doing  business,  there- 
fore, is  a  very  effectual  and  extended  mode  of 
doing  good;  and  the  fortune  which  is  acquired  in 
doing  it  is,  in  a  very  important  sense,  the  measure 
and  index  of  the  good  done. — The  Way  to  do  Good. 

AT   THE   COUNTRY   STORE. 

The  store  was  kept  by  a  hard-faced  looking  man 
who  went  by  the  name  of  KSluibael,  sometimes 
with  and  sometimes  without  the  prefix  "  Colonel.'' 
He  Avas  an  elderly  man.  (piiet  and  cool  in  his  air 
and  manner,  and    with  a   conntonancp  placid  but 


18  JACOB  ABBOTT. 

heartless  in  its  expression.  There  was  a  certain 
quick  motion  of  his  eye  wliich  showed  that  he 
was  shrewd  and  observant.  His  store  had  a  bad 
name,  and  yet  no  one  seemed  to  Icnow  exactly 
why.  Colonel  Shuljael  himself,  too,  was  the  ob- 
ject of  a  certain  mysterious  fear,  and  even  hate ; 
and  yet  no  one  had  anything  very  decided  to  say 
against  him.  He  was  believed  to  be  a  perfectly 
honest  man,  so  far  as  le(jal  honesty  is  concerned. 
No  man  understood  the  law  better  than  he,  or  the 
sound  policy  of  keeping  on  good  terms  with  it. 

Mr.  Shubael's  store  was  small,  but  it  had  a 
snug,  Gocial  air  within.  It  was  nearly  square, 
with  a  door  in  the  middle  of  the  front.  A  counter 
extended  along  one  side  and  across  the  back  of  the 
store;  and  on  the  remaining  side,  near  the  corner 
next  the  road,  was  a  fire-place,  with  a  barrel  of 
oil  and  another  of  cider  near  it,  to  keep  them  from 
freezing.  There  were  other  barrels  and  hogs- 
heads, less  likely  to  freeze,  behind  the  counter 
against  the  back  side  of  the  room.  A  door  be- 
tween two  great  black  hogsheads  mounted  on 
sticks,  opened  to  a  dark-looking  back  room  be- 
hind. Tubs,  bundles  of  whip-handles,  hoes  and 
shovels,  barrels,  kegs  of  nails,  and  iron-ware,  en- 
cumbered the  floor,  leaving  only  narrow  passages 
along  in  front  of  the  counters  and  toward  the  fire. 
There  was  a  little  area  near  the  fire  also  unoccu- 
pied, and  two  or  three  basket-bottomed  chairs, 
with  high  wooden  backs,  stood  there.  A  half-keg 
of  closely-packed  tobacco  was  near,  with  one 
loose  fig  and  an  old  hatchet  lying  on  it;  and  there 
was  an  ink-bottle,  with  a  blackened  and  dried-up 
quill  thrust  through  the  cork,  in  the  chimney  cor- 
ner. 

This  was  the  aspect  of  the  store  in  the  winter; 
but  it  was  now  .^^ummer.  between  haying  and  har- 
vesting. Tlie  fire  was  dead,  and  a  great  tin  fen- 
der concealed  the  ashes  and  brands.  The  chairs 
were  put  out  before  the  door,  and  two  or  three 
men  were  sitting  and  standing  there,  waiting  for 
the  "  stage."  It  was  a  calm  and  pleasant  after- 
noon ;  the  forests  around  wei'e  in  their  best  dress, 
and  the  view  up  the  pond  was  picturesque  in  the 
highest  degree.     But  the  company  paid  little  atten- 


JACOB  ABBOTT.  19 

tion  to  the  beautj^  of  the    scenery.     They  were 
looking  out  for  the  ''  stage." 

Mr.  Shubael  was  the  postmaster.  A  little  high 
paling,  at  the  end  of  the  counter  opposite  the 
fire,  was  the  post-office.  The  mail  came  once 
a  week,  bringing  a  few  newspapers  and  sometimes 
.some  letters.  The  company  which  was  collected 
on  this  occasion  were  not  interested  so  much  in 
the  contents  of  the  mail,  as  in  a  new  team  of 
horses,  and  a  large  coach,  which  was  that  day  for 
the  first  time  to  be  put  on  the  road.  They  were 
looking  off  beyond  the  bridge,  where  the  road 
could  be  seen  for  a  considerable  distance  winding 
around  a  hill,  and  talking  with  noisy  laughter 
about  various  subjects  that  came  up. 

By  the  side  of  the  door,  outside,  his  chair 
tipped  back  against  the  side  of  the  building  and 
his  feet  resting  upon  a  bar  which  passed  along 
between  two  posts  placed  there  for  fastening 
horses,  sat  a  tall  dark-complexioned  man,  with 
black  bushy  hair  and  eyebrows,  and  an  intelli- 
gent but  sinister  expression  of  countenance. 
They  called  him  McDonner. 

"McDonner,"  said  one  of  the  men,  leaning 
upon  the  bar  before  him,  "  it's  a  great  poser  to  me 
how  you  contrive  to  pick  up  a  living.  Your  farm 
over  there  don't  produce  enough  to  winter  over  a 
red  squirrel.  Then  you're  off,  nobody  knows 
where,  half  of  the  time.  I'll  lay  ten  to  one  there's 
some  foul  play."' 

McDonner  muttered  some  inarticulate  ejacula- 
tion in  reply,  and  then  said,  taking  down  his  feet, 
and  drawing  himself  up  in  his  chair.  "  I  can  tell 
you  what  would  be  a  very  pretty  way  for  you  to 
get  a  living."' 

'•  How  ?"  rejoined  his  interrogator. 
"By  attending  to  your  own  bushiess,  and  leav- 
ing me  to  manage  mine." 

The  company  tried  to  receive  this  with  a  laugh, 
but  the  attempt  was  a  failure.  Shubael  was 
standing  at  this  moment  at  the  door.  He  inter- 
posed to  prevent  ill-will.  '■  Come,  come,"  said 
he,  "  no  sparring.  Who's  that  coming  down  the 
road  ?  " 

The  men  turned  their  eyes  in  the   direction   of 


20  JACOB  AHBOTT. 

the  road,  where  they  were  expecting  to  see  the 
stage,  and  they  saw  a  man  coming  along  with 
something  on  his  shoulder. 

"  It's  Terry,  as  I'm  alive,'"  said  Shubael,  with  a 
sort  of  a  nod  and  a  wink,  '•  bringing  back  his 
axe,  just  as  I  said — exactly." 

The  men  asked  him  what  he  meant,  but  he 
turned  away  with  a  knowing  look  and  disappeared 
in  the  store.  McDouner  twisted  his  long  body 
around  so  as  to  look  in  at  the  door,  and  called  out, 

"  Colonel  Shubael,  come  back  here,  and  tell  us 
all  about  Terry's  axe.  You"ve  been  coming  over 
the  poor  fellow  in  some  of  your  sly  ways,  I  know. 
Tell  us  all  about  it." 

Shubael  came  to  the  door  again,  with  a  look  of 
hard,  selfish  satisfaction  on  his  face,  and  told  his 
story  thus: 

'•  Terry  got  a  job  the  other  day  which  brought 
him  a  little  money,  and  he  came  here  and  wanted 
to  get  an  axe.  •  Shubael,'  says  he,  '  I  want  a  first- 
rate  axe,  and  I  am  able  to  pay  for  it."—"  Well," 
says  I,  '  Terry,  I've  got  some  of  Darlington's  best, 
warranted.'— 'What's  the  price?'  said  he.— '  A 
dollar  and  a-half,'  says  1."' 

'•  Oh,  Shubael,"  cried  one  of  the  by-standers, 
*'  you  offered  to  sell  me  one  for  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter.     That's  a  line  way  to  work  poor  Terry." 

Here  was  a  shout  of  laughter,  to  which  Shubael 
himself,  however,  contributed  rather  faintly:  and 
then  proceeded.  "  Why,  I  knew  he  would  not 
keep  the  axe  a  week,  and  so  it  was  not  much  mat- 
ter what  he  paid  for  it." 

••  A  very  pretty  reason  that,  I  declare," '  said 
McDonner.  "•  I  rather  guess  he  did  not  get  his 
money  back  in  a  week." 

"I  told  him  a  dollar  and  a-half,  at  any  rate."" 
continued  Shubael:  ••and  he  chose  out  one.  and 
bought  a  handle  for  it,  and  paid  the  money. 
'Twas  the  first  time  he  had  bought  anything  but 
spirits  at  my  store  for  three  months.  I  knew  he 
would  not  keep  it  a  week,  and  now  he's  coming 
back  to  get  the  value  of  it  in  spirits,  or  my  name's 
not  Shubael."' 

It  was  not  long  before  Terry  approai^hed.  He 
was    a    thin,    dejected    miserable-looking    man. 


JACOB  ABBOTT.  21 

though  his  countenance  liad  a  certain  expression 
of  intelligence.  As  he  came  up  to  the  store  door, 
lie  was  hailed  in  various  tones  by  the  several 
loungers  there,  and  made  the  butt  of  jokes,  some 
coarse  and  others  dull.  He  received  them  all  with 
a  vacant  smile  and  walked  into  the  store. 

"Well,  Terry,"  said  Shubael,  "how  do  you 
make  your  axe  go  '?  " 

"It's  not  a  good  one,"  said  Terry,  "  and  I  want 
you  to  take  it  back." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it  ?"  asked  ^Shubael, 
taking  the  axe  from  Terry's  hand,  and  turning  a 
sly  glance  toward  the  company,  who  were  looking 
in  at  the  door  to  see  how  the  negotiation  was  to 
result. 

"  Oh,  it's  too  soft.  1  can't  do  anything  with  it, 
and  you  must  take  it  back,  as  it  is  warranted," 
said  Terry,  pointing  to  the  words  "  Darliarjton, 
whrranted,'"  stamped  very  legibly  on  the  side. 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  warrant  it;  it's  Darlington  > 
that  warrants  it.     I  presume,  if  you  take  it  to  his 
manufactory,  he'll  exchange  it  for  you.'" 

Darlington's  manufactory  was  about  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  off,  and  in  another  State.  Terry 
hesitated  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  said  that  he 
thought  tlie  Colonel  ought  to  take  it  back,  as  he 
sold  it  to  him  for  a  good  axe.  Mr.  Shubael 
seemed  very  unwilling  to  do  anything  about  it. 
He  talked  of  the  trouble  and  expense  of  sending 
the  axe  back,  and  finally  told  the  man,  winking  at 
the  same  time  at  the  bystanders,  that  he  would 
give  him  a  dollar  for  it,  out  of  the  store,  and  run 
Ills  chance  of  selling  it  or  getting  it  changed. 

"Why,"  said  Terry,  "  that's  very  hard;  I  paid 
a  dollar  and  a-half  for  it:  and  then  there's  the 
handle  besides,  to  say  nothing  of  the  putting  it 
in." 

"  But  it  will  cost  me  a  good  deal  to  get  it  back 
to  Darlington's,  and  the  handle  must  come  out  to 
harden  it.'' 

Terry  at  length  accepted  the  offer,  took  up  the 
amount  in  spirits  and  sugar,  and  left  the  store, 
jug  in  hand.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  the  loung- 
ers carne  in,  ;md  gave  vent  to  bursts  of  laughter, 
which   the}-  hud  contrived  to   suppress   while   tlie 


22  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT, 

bargain  was  going  on,  while  the  colonel,  with  a 
smile  of  self-satisfaction  and  a  nod  and  a  wink, 
went  round  to  his  desk,  and  began  to  look  into  his 
ledger.— Hoaryhcad  and  McBonner. 

ABBOTT,  John  Stephens  Cabot,  brother  of 
Jacob    Abbott,   born  at  Brunswick,   Maine, 
Sept.  18,  1805,  died,  June  17.  1877.     He  w^as 
educated  at  Bow^doin  College  and  at  Andover 
Theological  Seminary ;  and  became  pastor  of 
Congregational  churches  in  various  parts  of 
Massachusetts.     In   J  844  he  relinquished  the 
regular  pastoral  oflfice  (although  he  preached 
at  intervals  during  his  whole  life),  in  order  to 
devote   himself  to  authorship,  of   which  he 
had  already  made  a  beginning  by  his  Mother 
at  Home,  Child  at  Home,  and  other  religious' 
works.      Subsequently    he    devoted    himself 
.mainly  to  w'orks  of  a   historical  character. 
He  wrote  a  number    of    small    biographies 
ranging  over    a    wade    field.     Of  his    larger 
works  the  principal  are  :  Kings  and  Queens  ; 
or.  Life  in  the  Palace  ;  The  French  Revohdion 
of  1789  ,-  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  ; 
Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  ;  The  History  of  Na- 
poleon  HI.;  History  of   the.   Civil    War    in 
America  ;  Romance  of  Spanish  History ;  The 
History  of  Frederick  the  Second,  of  Prussia ; 
and  The  History  of  Christianity.     The  style 
of  Mr.  Abbott  is  ahvays  animated  and  pictur- 
esque, though  not  unfrequently  somewhat  in- 
flated.    The  most  popular  of  his  works  is  the 
History  of  Napoleon,  for  w' hom  he  cherished 
the  -^varmest  admiration;   ascribing  to  him 
not  only  capacities  of  the  highest  order,  but 
more  virtues  and  few^er  faults  than  are  often 
foimd  in  a  human  being : 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON, 

The  history  of  Napoleon  has  often  been  written 
by  his  enemies.  This  narrative  is  from  the  pen 
of  one  who  reveres  and  loves  the  Emperor.  The 
writer  admires   Napoleon    because  he   abhorred 


JOHN  S.   C.   ABBOTT.  '28 

war,  and  did  everything  in  his  power  to  avert 
that  dire  calamity;  because  he  merited  the  sov- 
ereignty to  which  the  suffrages  of  a  grateful  na- 
tion elevated  him;  because  he  consecrated  the 
most  extraordinary  energies  ever  conferred  upon 
a  mortal  to  promote  the  prosperity  of  his  country; 
because  he  was  regardless  of  luxury,  and  cheer- 
fully endured  all  toil  and  hiirdships  that  he  might 
elevate  and  bless  the  masser  of  mankind;  because 
he  had  a  higi'i  sense  oi  'uonor;  revered  religion,  re- 
spected the  rigbte-  oJc  conscience,  and  nobly  advo- 
cated equility  of  privileges  and  the  universal 
brotherhood  of  man.  Such  was  the  true  charac- 
ter of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

The  world  has  been  bewildered  by  the  contra- 
dictory views  which  have  been  presented  of  Na- 
poleon. Hostile  historians  have  stigmatized  him 
as  a  usurper;  while  admitting  that  the  suffrages 
of  the  nation  placed  him  on  the  throne.  They 
have  denounced  him  as  a  tyrant  inexorable  as  a 
Nero;  while  admitting  that  he  won  the  adoring 
love  of  his  subjects.  He  is  called  a  bloodthirsty 
monster,  delighting  in  war;  yet  it  is  confessed 
that  he  was,  in  almost  every  conflict,  struggling 
in  self-defence,  and  imploring  peace.  It  is  said 
that  his  insatiable  ambition  led  liim  to  trample  re- 
morselessly upon  the  rights  of  other  nations; 
while  it  is  confessed  that  Europe  was  astonished 
by  his  moderation  and  generosity  in  every  treaty 
which  he  made  with  his  vanquished  foes.  He  is 
described  as  a  human  butcher,  reckless  of  suffer- 
ing, who  regarded  his  soldiers  merely  as  food  for 
powder;  and  yet,  on  the  same  page,  we  are  told 
that  he  wept  over  the  carnage  of  the  battle-field, 
tenderly  pressed  the  hand  of  the  dying,  and  won 
from  those  soldiers  who  laid  down  their  lives  in 
his  service  a  fervor  of  love  which  earth  has  never 
seen  paralleled. 

It  is  recorded  that  France  at  last  became  weary 
of  him,  and  drove  him  from  the  throne;  and  in 
the  next  paragraph  we  are  informed  that,  as  soon 
as  the  bayonets  of  the  Allies  had  disappeared 
from  France,  the  whole  nation  rose  to  call  him 
jback  from  his  exile,  with  unanimity  so  unprece- 
dented that,  without  shedding  one  drop  of  blood, 


24  JOHX  S.  C.  .^BBOTT. 

he  traversed  the  whole  of  iTrauce,  eniofed  Paris 
and  re-ascended  the  throne.  It  is  affiimed  that  a 
second  time  France,  weary  of  his  desi^otism,  ex- 
pelled him;  and  yet  it  is  at  the  same  timf>  recorded 
that  this  same  France  demanded  of  his  execution- 
ers his  beloved  remains,  received  them  with  na- 
tional enthusiasm,  consigned  them  to  a  tomb  in 
the  very  bosom  of  its  capital,  and  has  reared  over 
them  such  a  mausoleum  as  honors  the  grave  of  no 
other  mortal.  SUch  is  Napoleon  as  described  by 
his  enemies. 

'riie  reason  is  obvious  why  the  character  of  Na- 
poleon should  have  ))een  maligned:  He  was  re- 
garded justly  as  the  foe  of  Aristocratic  Privilege. 
The  English  oligarchy  was  determined  to  crush 
him.  After  deluging  Europe  in  blood  and  woe, 
during  nea)ly  a  quarter  of  a  century,  for  the  ac- 
complishment of  this  end,  it  became  necessary  to 
prove  to  the  world — and  especially  to  the  British 
peiiple,  who  were  tottering  under  the  burden  of 
taxes  which  these  wars  engendered — that  Napo- 
leon was  a  tyrant,  threatening  the  liberties  of  the 
world,  and  that  he  deserved  to  be  crushed.  All 
the  allies  who  were  accomplices  in  this  iniquitous 
crusade  were  alike  interested  in  consigning  to  the 
world's  execration  the  name  of  their  victim ,  and 
even  in  France,  the  re-instated  Bourbons,  sus- 
tained upon  the  throne  by  the  bayonets  of  the 
Allies,  silenced  every  voice  which  would  speak  in 
favor  of  the  Monarch  of  the  People,  and  rewarded 
with  smiles  and  opulence  and  honor  all  who  would 
pour  contempt  upon  his  name.  Thus  we  have 
the  unprecedented  spectacle  of  all  the  monarchic;-. 
of  Europe  most  deeply  interested  in  calumniating 
one  single  man,  and  that  man  deprived  of  the 
possibility  of  reply. — Preface  to  the  History  of  Na- 
poleon. 

PABTING   OF   XAPOLEON   AND   JOSEPHINE. 

Josephine  remained  in  her  chamber  over- 
whelmed with  speechless  grief.  A  sombre  night 
darkened  over  the  city,  oppressed  by  the  gloom  of 
this  cruel  sacrifice.  The  hour  arrived  at  which 
Napoleon  usually  retired  for  sleep.  The  Emperor, 
restless  and  wretched,  had  jusr  placed  himself  in 


JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT.  25 

the  bed  from  which  he  had  ejected  his  faithful 
and  devoted  wife,  when  the  private  door  of  his 
chamber  was  slowly  opened,  and  Josephine  trem- 
blingly entered.  Her  eyes  were  swollen  with 
weeping,  her  hair  disordered,  and  she  appeared  in 
all  the  dishabille  of  unutterable  anguish.  Hardly 
conscious  of  what  she  did  in  the  delirium  of  her 
woe,  she  tottered  into  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  approached  the  bedside  of  her  former  hus- 
band. Then  irresolutely  stopping,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
A  feeling  of  delicacy  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
have  arrested  her  steps — a  consciousness  that  she 
had  noio  no  right  to  enter  the  chamber  of  Napo- 
leon. In  another  moment  all  the  pent-up  love  in 
her  heart  burst  forth;  and,  forgetting  everything 
in  the  fulness  of  her  anguish,  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed,  clasped  Napoleon's  neck  in  her 
arms,  and  exclaiming,  "My  husband!  my  hus- 
band!" sobbed  as  though  her  heart  were  break- 
ing. Tlie  imperial  spirit  of  Napoleon  was  entirely 
vanquished.  He  also  wept  convulsively.  He  as- 
sured Josephine  of  his  love — of  his  ardent  and 
undying  loVe.  In  every  way  he  tried  to  soothe 
and  comfort  her.  For  some  time  they  remained 
locked  in  each  other's  embrace.  The  valet-de- 
chambre,  who  was  still  present  was  dismissed,  and 
for  an  hour  Napoleon  and  Josephine  continued  to- 
gether in  their  last  private  interview.  Josephine 
then,  in  the  experience  of  an  intensity  of  ang-uish 
such  as  few  human  hearts  have  ever  known, 
parted  forever  from  the  husband  whom  she  had 
so  long  and  so  faithfully  loved.  An  attendant 
entered  the  apartment  of  Napoleon  to  remove  the 
lights.  He  found  the  Emperor  so  bui'ied  beneath 
the  bed-clothes  as  to  be  invisible.  Not  a  word  was 
uttered.  The  lights  were  removed,  and  the  un- 
happy monarch  was  left  alone,  in  darkness  and 
silence,  to  the  melancholy  companionship  of  his 
own  thoughts.  The  next  morning  the  deathlike 
pallor  of  his  cheek,  his  sunken  eye,  and  the  hag- 
gard expression  of  his  countenance,  attested  that 
the  Emperor  had  passed  the  night  in  sleeplessness 
and  in  suffering. — History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 


26  JOHN  S.  C.  ABBOTT. 

THE   BUKIAL   OF   JJAPOLEOK    AT   ST.    HKLKNA. 

The  morning  of  the  8th  of  May,  1821,  dawned 
with  unusual  brightness  upon  the  blackened  cliff 
of  St.  Helena.  A  perfect  calm  liad  succeeded  the 
storm,  and  not  a  cloud  floated  in  the  resplendent 
skies.  An  invigorating  sea-breeze  passed  gently 
over  the  island,  and  all  the  inhabitants  were  as- 
sembled at  Lougwood  to  pay  their  last  token  of 
respect  to  the  remains  of  the  captive  who  had  ren- 
dered their  island  immortal. 

At  half-past  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  the  grena- 
diers placed  the  heavy  triple  coffin,  of  tin,  lead, 
and  mahogany,  upon  the  hearse.  It  was  drawn 
by  four  horses.  Twelve  grenadiers  walked  by  the 
side  of  the  coffin,  to  take  it  upon  their  shoulders 
where  the  bad  state  of  the  roads  prevented  the 
horses  from  advancing.  The  Emperor's  house- 
hold, dressed  in  the  deepest  mourning,  followed 
immediately  the  hearse.  Their  hearts  were 
stricken  with  grief,  deep  and  unaffected.  The 
Admiral  and  the  Governor,  with  the  officers  of 
the  Staff,  respectfully  joined  the  procession  on 
horseback.  All  the  inhabitants  of  St.  Helena — 
men,  women,  and  children — in  a  long  winding 
train,  reverently  follow^ed.  The  English  garrison, 
w^hich  had  been  stationed  uj^on  the  island  to  guard 
the  Emperor,  two  thousand  five  hundred  strong, 
lined  the  whole  of  the  left  side  of  the  road,  nearly 
to  the  grave.  Bands  of  music,  stationed  at  inter- 
vals, breathed  their  requiems  upon  the  still  air. 
The  soldiers,  as  the  procession  passed,  fell  into 
the  line,  and  followed  it  to  the  grave. 

At  length  the  hearse  stopped.  The  gTenadiers 
took  the  coffin  on  their  shoulders,  and  carried  it 
along  a  narrow  path  which  had  been  constructed 
on  the  side  of  the  mountain  to  the  lonely  place  of 
burial.  The  coffin  was.  placed  on  the  verge  of  the 
grave.  The  Abbe  Vignali  recited  the  burial  ser- 
vice, while  all  were  overpowered  by  the  unwonted 
solemnity  and  sublimity  of  the  scene.  During  the 
funeral  marcli,  the  Admiral's  ship  in  the  harbor 
had  fired  minute-guns,  and  as  the  coffin  descended 
to  its  chambers  of  massive  masonry,  deep  in  the 
earth,  three  successive  volleys  from  a  battery  of 
fifteen  guns,  discharged  over  the  grave,  reverber- 


JOHN  y.  C.   ABBOTT.  27 

ated  along  the  cliffs  and  crags  of  St.  Helena.  The 
willows  which  overhung  tl>e  tomb  were  immedi- 
ately stripped  of  their  foliage,  as  each  one  wished 
to  carry  away  some  souvenir  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary man  the  world  has  ever  Jcnown. — HJMory 
of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   THK    FRENCH   REVOLUTION. 

To  commence  the  history  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion with  the  opening  of  the  States-General  in 
1789,  is  as  unphilosophical  as  to  commence  the 
history  of  tlie  American  Revolution  Avitli  the  bat- 
tle of  Lexington.  No  man  can  comprehend  this 
fearful  drama  who  does  not  contemplate  it  in  the 
light  of  those  ages  of  oppression  which  ushered  it 
in.  It  is  in  the  horrible  despotism  of  the  old  mon- 
archy of  France  that  one  is  to  see  the  efficient 
cause  of  the  subsequent  frantic  struggles  of  the 

people 

There  is  often  an  impression  that  the  Revolu- 
tion was  a  sudden  outbreak  of  blind  unthinking 
passion— a  tempest  bursting  from  a  serene  sky  ;  or 
like  a  battle  in  the  night— masses  rushing  blindly 
in  all  directions,  and  friends  and  foes,  in  confusion 
and  frenzy,  smiting  each  other.  But,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  Revolution  was  of  slow  growth— a  storm 
which  had  been  for  centuries  accumulating.  The 
gathering  of  the  clouds,  the  gleam  of  its  em- 
bosomed fires,  and  the  roar  of  its  approaching 
thunders,  arrested  the  attention  of  the  observing, 
'  ag  before  the  storm  in  all  its  fury  burst  upon 
ance.  A  careful  historic  narrative  evolves  order 
)m  the  apparent  chaos  ;  and  exhibits,  running 
through  the  tumultuous  scene  of  terror  and  of 
blood,  the  operation  of  causes  almost  as  resistless 

as  the  operation  of  physical  laws 

One  simple  moral  this  whole  awful  tragedy 
teaches:  It  is,  that  the  laws  must  be  so  just  as  to 
command  the  assent  of  every  enlightened  Chris- 
tian mind ;  and  the  masses  of  the  people  must  be 
trained  to  such  intelligence  and  virtue  as  to  be 
able  to  appreciate  good  laws,  and  have  the  dispo- 
sition to  maintain  them.  Here  lies  tha  only  hope 
of  our  Republic. — The  French  Revolution. 


28  JOHN"  S.   C.  AliHOTT. 

THE   DEATH   OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

The  day  was  just  beginning  to  dawn  as  the  long 
file  of  prisoners  were  led  into  the  Place  de  Gr&ve 
to  be  conducted  to  the  hall  of  the  Convention. 
First  «ame  Kobespierre  borne  by  four  men  on  a 
litter.     His   fractured   jaw   was  bound   up   by   a 

handkerchief,  which  was  steeped  in  blood 

He  was  laid  upon  a  table  in  an  ante-room,  while 
an  interminable  crowd  pressed  in  and  around  to 
catch  a  sight  of  the  fallen  Dictator.  The  unhappy 
man  was  overwhelmed  with  reproaches  and  in- 
sults, and  feigned  death  to  escape  this  moral  tor- 
ture. Tlie  blood  was  freely  flowing  from  his 
wound,  coagulating  in  his  mouth,  and  choking 
him  as  it  trickled  down  his  throat.  The  morning- 
was  intensely  hot.  Xot  a  breath  of  pure  air  could 
the  wounded  man  inhale.  Insatiable  thirst  and  a 
burning  fever  consumed  him;  and  thus  he  re- 
mained for  more  than  an  hour,  enduring  the  in- 
tensest  pangs  of  bodily  and  mental  anguish. 

By  order  of  the  Convention,  he  and  his  confed- 
erates were  then  removed  to  the  Committee  of 
General  Safety  for  examination;  from  which  tri- 
bunal they  were  sent  to  the  Conciergerie,  where 
they  were  all  thrown  into  the  same  dungeon  to 
await  their  trial,  wliicli  was  immediately  to  take 
place  before  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal.  A  few 
hours  of  pain,  anguish,  and  despair  passed  away, 
when  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  whole 
party  were  conveyed  to  that  merciless  Court, 
whicli  was  but  the  last  stepping-stone  to  deatli. 
The  trial  lasted  l)ut  a  few  moments.  They  were 
already  condemned,  and  it  was  only  necessary  to 
prove  their  identity.  The  Convention  was  victori- 
ous, and  no  man  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal 
dared  to  resist  its  will.  Had  the  Commune  of 
Paris  conquered  jn  this  strife,  the  obsequious  Tri- 
bunal with  equal  alacrity  would  have  consigned 
the  deputies  to  the  guillotine. 

At  five  o'clock  the  carts  of  the  condemned  re- 
ceived the  prisoners.  The  long  procession  ad- 
vanced through  the  Rue  St.  Honore  to  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution.  The  fickle  crowd  thronged  the 
streets,  heaping  imprecations  upon  the  man  to 
whom  they  would  liave  shouted  hosamia  had  he 


LYMAN  Al'.HO'n".  29 

been  a  victor.  Robespierre,  bis  brotber,  Coutlion, 
Henriot— all  mangled,  bleeding,  and  with  broken 
bones — were  thrown  into  the  tirst  cart  with  tho 
corpse  of  Lebas.  7^s  the  cart  jolted  over  the  pave- 
ment, shrieks  of  anguish  were  extorted  from  the 
victims.  At  six  o'clock  they  reached  the  steps  of 
the  guillotine.  Robespierre  ascended  the  scaffold 
with  a  firm  step;  but  as  the  executioner  l)rutally 
tore  the  bandage  from  his  inflamed  wound,  he 
uttered  a  shriek  of  torture  which  pierced  every 
ear.  The  dull  sullen  sound  of  the  falling  axe  was 
heard,  and  the  head  of  Robespierre  fell  ghastly 
into  the  basket.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence; 
and  then  the  crowd  raised  a  shout  as  if  a  great 
victory  had  been  achieved,  and  the  long-sought 
blessings  of  the  Revolution  attained.  Thus  died 
Robespierre,  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 
His  character  will  probably  remain  a  mystery.— 
The  French  Bevolution. 

ABBOTT,  Lyman,  son  of  Jacob  Abbott,  was 
born  at  Roxbury,  Mass.,  Dec.  18,  1835.  He 
graduated  at  the  University  of  the  City  of 
New  York  in  1853;  studied  law  with  his  elder 
brothers,  Benjamin  and  Austin  Abbott,  who 
in  conjunction  wrote  two  clever  novels, 
Conecut  Corners  and  Matthew  Carnaby,  which 
were  published  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
"  Benauly,"  made  up  of  the  initial  syllable  of 
the  names  of  each  of  the  writers.  He  subse- 
quently studied  theology  under  his  uncle, 
John  S.  C.  Abbott,  and  was  pastor  of  Congre- 
gational churches  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  About  1869  he  began  to  devote 
himself  especially  to  literature,  in  editorial 
connection  with  a  number  of  periodicals, 
although  he  continued  to  preach  not  unfre- 
quently.  He  has  also  written  many  separate 
works,  among  which  are:  The  Results  of 
Emancipation  in.  the  United  States;  Old  Tes- 
tament Shadows  of  New  Testament  Truths; 
Jesus  of  Nazareth:  His  Life  and  Teachings; 
and  a  Dictionary  of  Religious  Knowledge. 


30  LVMAX  ABBOTT. 

THE   DESTRrCTIOX   OF   THE   CITIES   OF   THE   PLAIN. 

The  story  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  epitomizes 
the  Gospel.  Every  act  in  the  great,  the  awful 
drama  of  Hfe  is  here  foreshadowed.  The  analogy 
is  so  perfect  that  we  might  almost  be  tempted  to 
believe  that  the  story  is  a  prophetic  allegory,  did 
not  nature  itself  witness  its  historic  truthfulness. 
The  fertile  plain  contained,  imbedded  in  its  own 
soil,  the  elements  of  its  own  destruction.  There 
is  reason  to  believe  that  this  is  true  of  this  world 
on  which  we  live.  A  few  years  ago  an  unusually 
brilliant  star  was  observed  in  a  certain  quarter  of 
the  heavens.  At  first  it  was  thought  to  be  a 
newly  discovered  siui ;  more  careful  examination 
resulted  in  a  different  hypothesis.  Its  evanescent 
character  indicated  combustion.  Its  brilliancy 
was  marked  for  a  few  hours — a  few  nights  at 
most — then  it  faded,  and  was  gone.  Astronomers 
believe  that  it  was  a  burning  world.  Our  own 
earth  is  a  globe  of  living  fire.  Only  a  thin  crust 
intervenes  between  us  and  this  fearful  interior. 
Ever  and  anon,  in  the  rumbling  earthquake,  or 
the  sublime  volcano,  it  gives  us  warning  of  its 
presence.  These  are  themselves  gospel  messen- 
gers. They  say  if  we  would  but  hear  them — 
"Prepare  to  meet  thy  God."  The  intimations  of 
Science  confirm  those  of  Revelation:  ''The 
heavens  and  the  earth.  .  .  .  are  kept  in  store,  re- 
served unto  fire  against  the  Day  of  .Judgment  and 
perdition  of  ungodly  men."  What  was  true  of 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah — what  was  true  of  the 
earth  we  live  on — is  true  of  the  human  soul.  It 
contains  within  itself  the  instruments  of  its  own 
punishment.  There  is  a  fearful  significance  in 
the  words  of  the  Apostle:  '"After  thy  hardness 
and  impenitent  heart  treasureth  up  to  thyself 
wrath  against  the  day  of  wrath."  Men  gather^ 
with  their  own  hands,  the  fuel  to  feed  the  flame 
that  is  not  quenched ;  they  nurture  in  their  own 
bosoms  the  worm  that  dieth  not.  In  habits  formed 
never  to  be  broken;  in  words  spoken,  incapable  of 
recall:  in  deeds  committed,  never  to  be  forgotten; 
in  a  life  wasted  and  cast  away  that  can  never  be 
made  to  bloom  again,  man  prepares  for  himself 
his   own   deserved    and   inevitable   chastisement. 


LYMAX  ABBOTT.  31 

"Son,  remember!" — to  the  soul  who  has  spent 
its  all  in  riotous  living-,  there  can  be  no  more 
awful  condemnation. — Old  Testament  Shodows. 

THE   JESUITS. 

Jesuits  is  the  popular  name  of  a  Society  more 
properly  entitled  "The  Society  of  Jesus" — of 
all  the  Religious  Orders  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  the  most  important.  The  Society  of 
Jesus  was  founded  in  1554  by  Ignatius  Loyola. 
He  was  a  Spanish  cavalier;  was  wounded  in  bat- 
tle; was  by  his  wounds,  which  impaired  the  use 
of  one  of  liis  legs,  deprived  of  his  military  ambi- 
tion, and  during  his  long  confinement  found  em- 
ployment and  relief  in  reading  a  Life  of  Christ, 
and  Lives  of  the  Saints.  This  enkindled  a  new 
ambition  for  a  life  of  religious  glory  and  religious 
conquest.  He  threw  himself,  with  all  the  ardor 
of  his  old  devotion,  into  his  new  life;  carried  his 
military  spirit  of  austerity  and  self-devotion  into 
his  religious  career;  exchanged  his  rich  dress  for 
a  beggar's  rags;  lived  upon  alms;  practised  aus- 
terities which  weakened  his  iron  frame,  but  not 
his  military  sjiirit;  and  thus  he  prepared  his  mind 
for  those  diseased  fancies  which  characterized 
this  period  of  his  extraordinary  career. 

He  possessed  none  of  the  intellectual  require- 
ments which  seemed  necessary  for  the  new  leader- 
ship which  he  proposed  to  himself.  The  age  de- 
spised learning,  and  left  it  to  the  priests;  and  this 
Spanish  cavalier,  at  the  age  of  thirty-three,  could 
do  little  more  than  read  and  write.  He  commenced 
at  once,  with  enthusiasm,  the  acquisition  of  those 
elements  of  knowledge  which  are  ordinarily  ac- 
quired long  before  that  age.  He  entered  the  low- 
est class  of  the  College  of  Barcelona,  where  he 
was  persecvited  and  derided  by  the  rich  ecclesias- 
tics, to  whose  luxury  his  self-denial  was  a  perpet- 
ual reproach.  He  fled  at  last  from  their  machin- 
ations to  Paris,  where  he  continued  his  studies 
under  more  favorable  auspices.  Prominent  among 
his  associates  here  was  P^rancis  Xavier,  a  brilliant 
scholar,  who  at  flrst  shrunk  from  the  ill-educated 
soldier;  yet  gradually  learned  to  admire  his  in- 
tense enthusiasm,  and  then  to  yield  allegiance  to 


32  LYMAN  ABBOTT. 

it  and  its  possessor.  Several  other  Spaniards  were 
drawn  around  the  ascetic.  At  length,  in  1534, 
Loyola,  and  five  associates,  in  a  subterranean 
chapel  in  Paris,  pledged  themselves  to  a  religious 
life,  and  with  st)lemn  rites  made  sacred  their  mu- 
tual pledges  to  each  other  and  to  God. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  Order  of  the 
Jesuits.  The  original  design  was  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  Holy  Land,  and  a  mission  for  the  conversion 
of  Infidels.  But  as  all  access  to  the  Holy  Land 
was  precluded  by  a  war  with  the  Turks,  Loyola 
and  his  associates  soon  turned  their  thoughts  to  a 
more  compi-ehensive  oiganization,  specially  de- 
signed to  meet  those  exigencies  which  the  Refor- 
mation had  brought  upon  the  Church. 

Loyola  introduced  into  the  new  order  of  which 
he  was  the  founder,  the  principle  of  absolute 
obedience  which  he  had  acquired  in  his  military 
career.  The  name  given  to  its  chief  was  the  militai-y 
title  of  "  General.*'  The  organization  was  not 
perfected,  so  as  to  receive  the  sanction  of  the 
Pope,  until  154L  Its  motto  was  Ad  Majorem  Dei 
Gloriam — "To  the  greater  Glory  of  God."  Its 
vows  embraced  not  only  the  obligations  of  Chas- 
tity, Poverty,  and  Obedience,  but  also  a  pledge  on 
the  part  of  every  member  to  go  as  missionary  to 
any  country  which  the  Pope  might  designate. 
Loyola  was  himself  the  first  General  of  the  new 
Order.  Its  Constitution,  due  to  him,  is  practi- 
cally that  of  an  Absolute  Monarchy.  The  Genei'al 
is  elected  by  a  General  Congregation,  selected  for 
the  purpose  l)y  the  whole  body  of  professed  mem- 
bers in  the  various  Provinces.  He  holds  his  office 
for  life.  A  Council  of  Assistants  aid  him,  but  he  is 
not  bound  by  their  vote.  He  may  not  alter  the  Con- 
stitution of  the  Society;  and  he  is  subject  to  depo- 
sition in  certain  contingencies:  but  no  instance  of 
the  deposition  of  a  General  has  ever  occurred. 
Practically  his  will  is  absolute  law,  from  which 
there  is  no  appeal. 

The  Jesuits  are  not  distinguished  by  any  par- 
ticular dress  or  peculiar  pi-actices.  They  are  per- 
mitted to  mingle  with  the  world,  and  to  conform 
to  its  habits,  if  necessary  for  the  attainment  of 
their  ends.     Their  widest  influence  has  been  ex' 


GILBEKT  A.  A  BECKETT.  83 

liibited  In  jiolitical  circles,  where,  as  laymen, 
they  have  attained  the  highest  political  positions 
without  exciting  any  suspicion  of  their  connection 
with  the  Society  of  Jesus,  and  in  education  they 
have  heen  employed  as  teachers,  in  which  position 
they  have  exercised  an  incalculable  influence  over 

the  Church It  should  be  added  that  the 

enemies  of  the  Order  allege  that,  in  addition  to 
the  public  and  avowed  Constitution  of  the  Society, 
there  is  a  secret  code,  called  Monlta  Secreta — 
"Secret  Instructions" — which  is  reserved  exclu- 
sively for  the  private  guidance  of  the  more  ad- 
vanced members.  But  as  this  Secret  Code  is  dis- 
avowed by  the  Society — and  since  its  authority  is 
at  least  doubtful — it  is  not  necessary  to  describe 
it  here  in  detail. — Dictionary  of  Beliyious  Knowl- 
edge. 

A  BECKETT,  Gilbert  Abbott,  a  British 
humorist,  born  in  London,  1810,  died  at  Bou- 
logne, France,  1856.  He  wrote  burlesque 
dramas  while  a  mere  boy,  several  of  which 
were  published  before  he  had  reach '^'d  the  age 
of  fifteen.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of 
Punch  (1841)  to  Avhich  he  Avas  a  frequent  con- 
tributor, as  well  as  to  other  journals.  In  1849 
he  was  appointed  a  police  magistrate,  and 
executed  the  duties  of  his  office  with  marked 
ability.  After  his  death  a  pension  of  £100 
was  granted  to  his  Avidow.— His  son,  Arthur 
William  a  Beckett,  born  in  1844,  entered  the 
civil  service  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  but  he 
soon  abandoned  it  to  engage  in  various  literary 
occupations ;  and  in  1874  he  was  placed  on  the 
editorial  staff  of  Punch,  having  in  the  mean 
while  been  called  to  the  bar.  He  is  the  author 
of  many  novels  and  dramas,  some  of  them 
decidedly  clever.  Among  his  tales  are  Fallen 
among  Thieves  (1870),  The  Modern  Arabian 
Nights  (1875),  The  Ghost  of  Gi^aystone  Grange 
(1877),  and  The  Mystery  of  Mostyn  Manor 
(1878).  Among  his  comedies  are  About  Town 
(1873).  which  had  a  run  of  150  nights.  Father 


34  PETER  ABELAKD. 

and  Son  (1881),  and  Lojig  Ago  (1882).— The 
principal  works  of  the  elder  a  Beckett  are  The 
Comic  History  of  England,  The  Comic  His- 
tory  of  Rome,  and  The  Comic  Blacksfone. 
He  was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  wittiest 
writers  of  the  day.  The  travesty  of  Black- 
stone,  in  which  the  treatise  of  that  great  light 
of  the  law  is  followed  step  by  step,  ranks 
among  the  highest  among  works  of  that  class. 
ABE  LARD,  Peter,  a  French  scholar,  born 
near  Nantes  in  1079,  died  April  21,  1142.  He 
was  of  a  noble  Breton  family,  but  the  name 
by  which  he  is  known  appears  to  be  merely 
a  kind  of  nickname  which  was  fastened  upon 
him  while  a  student,  and  adopted  by  him. 
He  became  famous  while  a  mere  youth  for 
his  scholastic  attainments ;  and  w^hile  a  young 
man  was  the  acknowledged  head  of  the 
"  Nominalists  "  in  their  victorious  controversy 
with  the  "Realists."  He  set  up  a  philosoph- 
ical school  of  his  own,  and  about  1115  was 
placed  in  the  chair  at  Notre-Dame,  being  also 
nominated  as  Canon.  Within  the  precmcts 
of  Notre-Dame  was  a  girl  named  Heloise,  who 
was  under  the  care  of  her  uncle,  the  Canon 
Fulbert.  She  was  noted  for  her  genius  as 
well  as  her  beauty,  and  became  a  pupil  of 
Abelard,  who  was  near  forty — more  than 
double  her  age.  Illicit  love  sprung  up  be- 
tween them.  Heloise,  about  to  become  a 
mother,  went  off  with  her  lover.  Abelard 
was  eager  to  marry  her  upon  condition  that 
the  marriage  should  be  kept  a  secret,  so  that 
his  prospects  of  ecclesiastical  preferment 
might  not  be  marred.  Heloise  was  with 
difficulty  persuaded  to  accept  this  sacrifice 
from  her  lover ;  and  when  the  marriage  came 
to  be  a  matter  of  piiblic  talk  she  denied  that 
it  had  ever  taken  place,  and  fled  to  a  convent. 
Her  uncle  believing  that  Abelard  was  trying 
to  get  rid  of  his  wife,  took  a  fearful  venge- 


PETEE  ABELARD.  65 

ance.  He  and  some  others  broke  into  the 
room  of  their  victim  and  inflicted  the  most 
severe  mutilation  upon  him.  The  rest  of  the 
story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise  reads  hke  a  ro- 
mance. He  reappeared  as  a  public  teacher, 
with  greater  success  than  before;  was  soon 
charged  with  heresy,  and  obliged  to  burn  the 
book  which  he  had  written.  He  fled  into  the 
forest,  built  a  hut  of  stubble  and  reeds,  and 
turned  hermit.  His  retreat  was  discovered, 
and  its  neighborhood  was  thronged  with 
students,  who  soon  carried  him  back  to  Paris, 
where  they  built  for  him  an  oratory  to  which 
he  gave  the  name  of  the  Paraclete — the 
"Comforter."  Heloise,  who  had  become  a 
nun,  was  brought  to  the  Paraclete  as  the  head 
of  a  new  religious  house,  of  which  Abelard 
was  the  spiritual  director.  Abelard  again 
fell  under  religious  persecution,  and  fled  to 
an  abbey  in  Brittany,  where  he  wrote  his 
Historia  Calamitatiim,  which  called  out  the 
three  famous  epistles  of  Heloise,  in  which  she 
finally  accepted  the  task  of  resignation  which 
Abelard  had  commended  to  her.  Abelard 
was  in  the  end  twice  condemned  by  a  Council 
for  heresy.  He  appealed  to  the  Pope,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  Rome  to  urge  his  plea, 
when  he  was  stricken  down  by  a  fatal  sick- 
ness. His  remains  were  secretly  taken  to 
Heloise  at  the  Paraclete,  and  upon  her  death 
she  was  buried  by  his  side.  The  bones  of 
this  ill-starred  pair  have  been  repeatedly 
shifted  from  place  to  place,  and  they  now 
repose  in  a  conspicuous  tomb  in  the  cemetery 
of  Pere-Lachaise.  Abelard's  fame  as  a  scho- 
lastic philosopher  was  in  a  measure  revivified 
when  Cousin,  in  1836,  put  forth  an  edition  of 
his  works,  which  had  for  the  most  part  come 
down  only  in  manuscript.  But  to  all  except 
a  few  readers  he  is  only  known  by  his  sin- 
gular connection  with  Heloise.      The  letters 


36  PETEK  ABELAKD. 

which  passed  between  them  in  the  later  years 
of  their  hves  have  been  translated  into  many- 
languages.  The  main  purport  of  those  of 
Abelard  is  to  reconcile  her  to  the  monastic 
life. 

ABELAJBD  TO   HELOISE. 

In  the  admirable  order  of  Providence,  by  the 
very  means  the  devil  aimed  to  destroy  ns,  was 
our  Salvation  effected.  We  were  just  then  united 
by  the  indissoluble  bond  of  marriage.  It  was  my 
wish  never  to  be  separated  from  you;  and  at  that 
moment  God  projected  to  draw  us  to  himself. 
Had  you  been  tied  by  no  engagement,  when  I  left 
the  world,  tlie  persuasion  of  friends  or  the  love  of 
pleasure  might  easily  have  detained  you  in  it.  It 
seemed,  by  this  care  of  lieaven,  as  if  we  had  been 
designed  for  some  important  purpose ;  as  if  it  were 
unbecoming  that  the  literary  talents  we  both  pos- 
sessed should  be  employed  in  other  business  than 
in  celebrating  the  praises  of  our  Maker.  Perhaps 
it  was  feared  that  the  allurements  of  a  woman 
would  pervert  my  heart.  It  was  the  fate  of  Solo- 
mon. 

How  many  are  the  blessings  with  which  your 
labors  are  daily  crowned  I  your  spiritual  children 
are  numerous;  whilst  I,  alas!  can  number  none; 
and  am  here  in  vain,  at  St.  Gildas,  preaching  to 
these  sons  of  perdition.  And  would  not,  think 
you,  the  loss  have  been  deplorable,  if,  immersed 
in  the  deplorable  pleasures  of  the  world,  in  lieu 
of  the  splendid  offspring  you  now  rear  for  heaven, 
you  had  lieen,  with  pain,  the  mother  only  of  a  few 
earthly  children?  Then  would  you  have  been  a 
mere  woman;  and  now  you  surpass  us  all,  and 
now  you  change  the  curse  of  Eve  into  the  blessing 
of  Mary.  Those  hands  which  in  holy  occupation, 
now  turn  over  the  sacred  volumes,  had  been  un- 
becomingly engaged  in  the  mean  offices  of  domes- 
tic life!  From  such  unseemly  occupations  Ave 
have  been  graciously  called,  even  by  a  holj"^  vio- 
lence, as  was  the  great  apostle.  It  has  been  meant, 
perhaps,  for  an  example  from  which  other  learned 


JOHN  ABERCROMBIE.  37 

persons  may  take  warning,  and  not  presume  on 
their  own  strength. 

Be  not  therefore  afflicted,  Heloise,  nor  repine  at 
this  paternal  chastisement.  "  God  corrects  whom 
he  loves."  Our  sufferings  are  momentary;  they 
are  to  purify,  and  not  destroy  us.  Listen  to  the 
prophet,  and  be  comforted:  "  God  will  not  judge, 
nor  will  he  twice  punish  the  same  crime,"  says 
he.  Attend  to  the  important  advice  which  truth 
itself  has  given  to  us;  "In  patience  you  shall  pos- 
sess your  souls."  So  says  Solomon:  "The  pa- 
tient man  is  better  than  the  warrior,  and  he  that 
is  the  master  of  his  own  mind  than  the  conqueror 
of  cities." 

Are  you  not  moved  to  compunctions  and  to  tears 
when  you  behold  the  innocent  Son  of  God  suffer- 
ing such  various  torments  for  you  and  for  us  all? 
Have  him  ever  before  your  eyes;  carry  him  in 
your  thoughts.  View  him  going  out  to  Calvary, 
and  bearing  the  heavy  weight  of  his  cross.  Join 
the  company  of  people,  and  of  the  holy  women 
who  lamented  and  wailed  round  him.  Learn  to 
sympathize  with  his  sufferings;  be  early  at  his 
monument,  and  strew  perfumes  on  his  grave. 
But  remember,  they  be  spiritual  odors;  and  with 
your  tears  bedew  them. — Berington's  Translation. 

ABERCROMBIE,  John,  a  Scottish  physi- 
cian and  author,  born  at  Aberdeen,  Nov.  11, 
1781,  died  at  Edinburgh,  Nov.  14,  1844.  He 
was  recognized  as  at  the  head  of  the  medical 
profession  in  Scotland,  and  in  1835  was  chosen 
Lord  Rector  of  Mareschal  College,  Aberdeen. 
Besides  several  medical  works,  he  wrote  In- 
quiries concerning  the  Intellectual  Potvers  of 
Alan,  and  The  Philosophy  of  the  Moral  Feel- 
ings; the  former  being  directed  especially 
against  the  doctrine  of  Materialism ;  and  both 
works  attained  great  popularity. 

MATHEMATICAL  KEASONING. 

The  proper  objects  of  Mathematical  Reasoning 
are  quantity  and  its  relations;  and  these  are  capa- 
ble of  being  defined  and  measured  with  a  pi-ecis- 
ion  of  which  the  objects  of  other  kinds  of  reason- 


38  JOHX  ABERCROMBIE. 

ing  are  entirely  unsusceptible.  It  is  indeed 
always  to  be  kejjt  in  mind  that  mathematical  rea- 
soning is  only  applicable  to  subjects  which  can  be 
defined  and  measured  in  this  manner,  and  that  all 
attempts  to  extend  it  to  subjects  of  other  kinds 
have  led  to  the  greatest  absurdities.  Notwith- 
standing the  high  degree  of  precision  which  thus 
distinguishes  mathematical  reasoning,  the  study 
of  mathematics  does  not,  as  is  commonly  sup- 
posed, necessarily  lead  to  precision  in  other  spe- 
cies of  reasoning,  and  still  less  to  correct  investi- 
gation in  physical  science.  The  explanation  that 
is  given  of  the  fact  seems  satisfactory. 

The  mathematician  argues  certain  conclusions 
from  certain  assumptions,  rather  than  from  actual 
ascertained  facts;  and  the  facts  to  which  he  may 
have  occasion  to  refer  are  so  simple,  and  so  free 
from  all  extraneous  matter,  that  their  truth  is 
obvious,  or  is  ascei'tained  without  difficulty.  By 
being  conversant  with  truths  of  this  nature,  he 
does  not  learn  that  kind  of  caution  and  severe  ex- 
amination which  is  required  in  physical  science, 
for  enabling  us  to  judge  whether  the  statements 
on  which  we  proceed  are  true,  and  whether  they 
include  the  whole  truth  which  ought  to  enter  into 
the  investigation.  He  thus  acquires  the  habit  of 
too  great  facility  in  the  admission  of  data  on 
premises,  which  is  the  part  of  every  investigation, 
which  the  physical  inquirer  scrutinizes  with  the 
most  anxious  care;  and  too  great  confidence  in 
the  mere  force  of  reasoning,  without  adequate  at- 
tention to  the  previous  processes  of  investigation 
on  which  all  reasoning  must  be  founded.  It  has 
been  accordingly  remarked  by  Mr.  Stewart,  and 
other  accurate  observers  of  intellectual  character, 
that  mathematicians  are  apt  to  be  exceedingly 
credulous  in  regard  both  to  opinions  and  to  mat- 
ters of  testimony;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  per- 
sons who  are  chiefly  conversant  with  the  uncertain 
sciences  acquire  a  kind  of  scepticism  in  regard  to 
statements,  which  is  apt  to  lead  them  into  the  op- 
posite error.  These  observations  of  course  ajjply 
only  to  what  we  may  call  a  mere  mathematician — ■ 
a  character  which  is  now  probably  rare,  since  the 
close    connection   was    established    between    the 


I 


JOHN  ABEKCROMBIE.  39 

mathematical  and  johysical  sciences  in  the  philos- 
ophy of  Newton. — Inquiries  concerning  the  Intel- 
lectual Powers. 

THEOKIES  OF  MORALS. 

In  contemplatin,^  the  conduct  of  men  as  placed 
in  certain  relations  to  each  other,  we  perceive 
some  actions  which  we  pronounce  to  be  right,  and 
others  whicli  we  pronounce  to  be  wrong.  In  form- 
ing our  opinion  of  them  in  this  manner,  we  refer 
to  the  intentions  of  tlie  actor;  and,  if  we  are  satis- 
fiecl  that  he  really  intended  to  do  what  we  per- 
ceive to  be  the  tendency  of  his  conduct,  or  even  if 
he  purposed  something  which  he  was  prevented 
from  accomplishing,  we  view  him  with  feelings  of 
moial  approbation  or  disapprobation ;  or,  in  other 
words,  apply  to  him  the  award  of  praise  or  blame. 
Such  is  our  simple  idea  of  Virtvie  or  Vice,  as  ap- 
plied either  to  the  act  or  the  agent.  We  have  a 
conviction  that  there  is  a  line  of  conduct  to  which 
ourselves  and  others  are  bound  by  a  certain  kind 
of  obligatiott.  A  departure  from  this  constitutes 
moral  demerit,  or  Vice;  a  correct  observance  of  it 
constitutes  Vii'tue. 

This  appears  to  be  the  simple  view  of  our  pri- 
mary impression  of  Vice  and  Virtue.  The  next 
question  is,  what  is  the  origin  of  the  impression; 
or  on  what  ground  is  it  that  we  conclude  certain 
actions  to  be  right,  and  others  wrong  ?  Is  it 
merely  from  a  view  of  their  consequences  to  our- 
selves or  others  ?  or  do  we  proceed  ujion  an  abso- 
lute conviction  of  certain  conduct  being  right,  and 
certain  other  wrong,  without  carrying  the  mind 
further  than  the  simple  act,  or  the  simple  inten- 
tion of  the  actor — without  any  consideration  of 
the  effect  or  tendencies  of  the  action?  This  is  the 
question  which  has  been  so  keenly  agitated  in  the 
sjieculations  of  ethical  science :  namely,  respect- 
ing the  origin  and  nature  of  moral  distinctions. 

On  the  one  hard,  it  is  contended  that  these 
moral  impressions  are  in  themselves  immutable, 
and  that  an  absolute  connection  of  their  immuta- 
bility is  tixed  upon  us,  in  that  part  of  our  consti- 
tution which  we  call  Conscience;  in  other  words, 
there  is  a  certain  conduct  to  which  we  are  bovmd 


40  JOHN  ABERCKOMBIE. 

by  a  feeling  of  obligation,  apart  from  all  otber 
considerations  wbatever;  and  we  have  an  impres- 
sion that  a  departure  from  this,  in  ourselves  or 
others,  constitutes  Vice.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is 
maintained  that  these  distinctions  are  entirely  ar- 
bitrary, or  arise  out  of  circumstances;  so  that 
what  is  Yice  in  one  case  may  be  Virtue  in  an- 
other. Those  who  have  adopted  the  latter  hy- 
pothesis have  next  to  explain  what  the  circum- 
stances are  which  give  rise,  in  this  manner,  to  our 
impressions  of  Vice  and  Virtue — moral  approba- 
tion or  disapprobation. — The  various  modes  of  ex- 
plaining this  impression  have  led  to  the  Theories 
of  Morals. — Philosophy  of  the  Moral  Feelings. 

Hume's  theouy. 

According  to  the  Theory  of  Utility,  as  warmly 
supported  by  Mr.  Hume,  we  estimate  the  virtue 
of  an  action  and  an  agent  entirely  by  their  Useful- 
ness. He  seems  to  refer  all  our  mental  impres- 
sions to  two  principles,  Reason  and  Taste.  Rea- 
son gives  US  simply  the  knowledge  of  Truth  or 
Falsehood,  and  is  no  motive  of  action.  Taste 
gives  an  impression  of  Pleasure  or  Pain,  and  so 
constitutes  Happiness  or  Misery,  and  becomes  a 
motive  of  action.  To  this  he  refers  our  imijres- 
sions  of  Beauty  and  Deformity.  Vice  and  Virtue. 
He  has,  accordingly,  distinctlj^  asserted  that  the 
words  "right"  and  "wrong"  signify  nothing 
more  thau  "sweet"  or  "  sour,"  "pleasant"  or 
"painful,"  being  only  effects  upon  the  mind  of 
the  spectator  produced  by  certain  conduct;  and 
this  resolves  itself  into  the  impression  of  its  "use- 
fulness." An  obvious  objection  to  this  system  of 
Utility  was,  that  it  might  be  applied  to  the  effects 
of  inanimate  matter  as  correctly  as  to  the  deeds  of 
a  voluntary  agent.  A  printing-press  or  a  steam- 
engine  might  be  as  meritorious  as  a  man  of  ex- 
tensive virtue.  To  obviate  this,  Mr.  Hume  was 
driven  to  a  ditstmction  which,  in  fact,  amounted  to 
a  giving uj)  of  the  doctrine:  namely,  that  the  sense 
of  Utility  must  be  combined  with  a  feeling  of  Ob- 
ligation. This  leads  us  back  to  the  previous 
question,  on  what  this  feeling  is  founded,  and  at 
once  recognizes  a  principle  distinct  from  the  mere 


JOHN  ABERCROMBIE.  41 

perception  of  utility.  Virtuous  conduct  may  in- 
deed always  contribute  to  general  Utility,  or  gen- 
eral Happiness ;  but  this  is  an  effect  only,  not  the 
cause  or  principle  which  constitutes  it  Virtuous. 
This  important  principle  has  been  well  stated  by 
Professor  Mills  of  Oxford.  He  defines  Morality 
to  be,  "an  obedience  to  the  law  or  constitution  of 
man's  nature,  assigned  him  by  the  Deity,  in  con- 
formity to  His  own  essential  and  unchangeable 
attribute,  the  effect  of  which  is  the  general  happi- 
ness of  His  creatures." — Philosophy  of  the  Moral 
Feelings. 

paley's  theory. 

This  eminent  writer  is  decidedly  opposed  to  the 
doctrine  of  a  Moral  Sense,  or  Moral  Principle ;  but 
the  system  which  he  proposes  to  substitute  in  its 
place  must  be  acknowledged  to  be  liable  to  con- 
siderable objections.  He  commences  with  the  prop- 
osition that  Virtue  is  doing  good  to  mankind,  in 
obedience  to  the  will  of  God,  and  for  the  sake  of 
everlasting  happiness.  The  Good  of  Mankind, 
therefore,  is  the  subject,  the  Will  of  God  the  rule, 
and  everlasting  Happiness  the  motive  of  human 
Virtue.  The  will  of  God,  he  subsequently  goes 
on  to  show,  is  made  known  to  us  partly  by  Eevela- 
tion,  and  partly  by  what  we  discover  of  his  de- 
signs and  dispositions  from  his  works,  or  as  we 
usually  call  it,  the  Light  of  Nature.  From  this 
last  source  he  thinks  it  is  clearly  to  be  inferred 
that  God  wills  and  wishes  the  happiness  of  his 
creatures;  consequently  actions  which  promote 
that  will  and  wish  must  be  agreeable  to  Him,  and 
the  contrary.  The  method  of  ascertaining  the 
will  of  God  concerning  any  action,  by  the  Light  of 
Nature,  therefore,  is  to  inquire  into  the  tendency 
of  the  action  to  promote  or  diminish  general  hap- 
piness. Proceeding  on  these  grounds,  he  then 
arrives  at  the  conclusion,  that  whatever  is  "ex- 
pedient" is  "  right;  "  and  that  it  is  the  utility  of 
any  moral  rule  which  constitutes  the  obligation  of 
it.  In  his  further  elucidation  of  this  theory.  Dr. 
Paley  admits  that  an  action  may  be  useful  in  an 
individual  case  which  is  not  right.  To  constitute 
it  right,  it  is  necessary  that  it  shall  be  "expedient 


42  JOHN  ABERCROMBIE. 

upon  the  wliole — at  the  long  run — in  all  its  effects 
collateral  and  remote,  as  well  as  those  which  are 
immediate  and  dirtict."—Philosoi}hy  of  the  Moral 
Feelings, 

THEORY   OF   ADAM   SMITH. 

This  system  is  usually  called  the  Theory  of  Sym- 
pathy. According-  to  this  ingenious  writer,  it  is 
required  for  our  moral  sentiments  respecting  an 
action,  that  we  enter  into  the  feelings  both  of  the 
agent  and  of  him  to  whom  the  action  relates.  If 
we  sympathize  with  the  feelings  and  intentions  of 
the  agent,  we  approve  of  his  conduct  as  right;  if 
not,  we  consider  it  as  wrong.  If,  in  the  ixadividual 
to  whom  the  action  refers,  we  sympathize  with  a 
feeling  of  gratitude,  we  regard  the  agent  as  worthy 
of  praise;  if  with  a  feeling  of  resentment,  the  con- 
trary. We  thus  observe  our  feelings  respecting 
the  conduct  of  others,  in  cases  in  which  we  are 
not  personally  concerned;  then  apply  these  rules 
to  ourselves,  and  thus  judge  of  our  own  conduct. 

This  very  obvious  statement,  however,  of  what 
every  man  feels,  does  not  supply  the  place  of  a 
fundamental  rule  of  right  and  wrong.  It  applies 
only  to  the  application  of  a  principle,  not  to  the 
origin  of  it.  Our  sympathy  can  never  be  supposed 
to  constitute  an  action  right  or  wrong;  but  it  ena- 
bles us  to  apply  to  individual  cases  a  principle  of 
right  and  wrong  derived  from  another  source;  and 
to  clear  our  judgment  in  doing  so,  from  the  blend- 
ing influence  of  those  selfisli  feelings  by  which  we 
are  so  apt  to  be  misled  when  we  apply  it  directly 
to  ourselves.  In  estimating  our  own  conduct,  we 
then  apply  to  it  those  conclusions  which  we  have 
made  with  regard  to  the  conduct  of  others;  or  we 
imagine  others  applying  the  same  process  in  regard 
to  us,  and  consider  how  our  conduct  would  appear 
to  an  impartial  ohaevver.— Philosophy  of  the  Moral 
Feelings. 

After  having  stated  these  and  other  theo- 
ries of  morals,  and  pointed  out  their  several 
errors  and  deficiencies,  Mr.  Aberci-ombie 
enunciates  his  own  views  upon  the  matter: 


EDMOND  ABOUT.  43 

abercrombie's  theory. 
The  important  distinction  which  these  observa- 
tions have  been  intended  to  illustrate  may  be  briefly 
recapitulated  in  the  following  manner:  The  as- 
pect of  actions,  as  right  or  wrong,  is  founded  upon 
a  princii^le  in  the  human  mind  entirely  distinct 
from  the  exercise  of  Reason;  and  the  standard  of 
moral  rectitude  derived  from  this  source  is,  in  its 
nature,  fixed  and  immutable.  But  there  are  many 
cases  in  which  the  exercise  of  Eeason  may  be  em- 
ployed in  referring  particular  actions  to  this  stand- 
ard, or  trying  them,  as  it  were,  by  it.  Any  such 
mental  process,  however,  is  only  to  be  considered  as 
a  kind  of  test  applied  to  individual  instances,  and 
must  not  be  confounded  with  the  standard  to  which 
it  is  the  office  of  this  test  to  refer  them.  Right  or 
virtuous  conduct  does,  in  point  of  fact,  contrib- 
ute to  general  Utility,  as  well  as  to  the  advantage 
of  the  individual,  in  the  time  and  extended  sense  of 
that  term;  and  these  tendencies  are  perceived  by 
the  Reason.  But  it  is  neither  of  these  which  con- 
stitute it  Right.  This  is  founded  entirely  on  a  dif- 
ferent principle:  the  immutable  rule  of  Moral 
Rectitude.  It  is  perceived  by  a  different  part  of 
our  constitution— the  Moral  Principle,  or  Con- 
science; and,  by  the  operation  of  tliis  principle  we 
pronounce  it  Right,  without  any  reference  to  its 
consequences  either  to  ourselves  or  others.— P/(t- 
losophy  of  the  Moral  Feelings. 

ABOUT,  Edmond  -  Francois  -  Valentin,  a 
French  literateur,  born  at  Dieuze,  depart- 
ment of  Meurthe,  Feb.  14,  1828 ;  died  early  in 
1885.  In  1848  he  won  the  prize  of  honor  at 
the  Lycee  Charlemagne,  and  in  1851  was  sent 
to  the  French  School  at  Athens,  Greece, 
where  he  devoted  himself  to  archaeological 
studies.  In  1855  he  wrote  La  Greee  Con- 
femporaine ;  and  in  the  same  year  published 
Tolla,  a  novel,  which  was  charged  with  being 
a  plagiarism.  He  received  the  decoration  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor  in  1858 ;  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  he  put  forth  at  Brussels  the 
Roman  Qu^tion— which  was  said  to.  have 


44  EDMOND  ABOUT. 

been  inspired  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon  III. , 
— in  which,  he  advocated  the  aboHtion  of  the 
temporal  power  of  the  Pope.  In  the  preface 
to  this  work  he  says  :  "  If  I  have  sought  a 
publisher  in  Brussels,  while  I  had  an  excel- 
lent one  in  Paris,  it  is  not  because  I  feel  any 
alarm  on  the  score  of  the  regulations  of  our 
press,  or  the  severity  of  our  tribunals.  But 
as  the  Pope  has  a  long  arm,  which  miglit 
reach  me  in  France,  I  have  gone  a  little  out 
of  the  way  to  tell  him  the  plain  truths  con- 
tained in  these  pages."  In  1866  M.  About 
was  commissioned  by  the  Emperor  to  draw 
up  a  report  on  the  state  of  public  opinion 
in  France.  Upon  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Franco-German  war,  he  became  a  war-cor- 
respondent of  the  newspaper  La  Soir,  and 
his  letters  attracted  much  attention.  In  1872 
he  became  Editor  of  the  Radical  journal  Le 
XIXe  Steele,  and  in  the  autumn  of  that  year 
was  arrested  at  Strasbourg  by  the  Germans, 
in  consequence  of  his  work  entitled  Alsace. 
In  1873  he  succeeded  Philarete  de  Chasles  as 
Paris  correspondent  of  the  London  Athe- 
nceum. — The  works  of  M.  About  cover  a  wide 
range  of  topics,  including  fiction,  the  drama, 
and  politics;  and  many  of  them  have  been 
translated  into  English. 

THE    SPIKm  AL    AND    THE    TEMrOKAL    POAVEK  OF 
THE   POPE. 

The  earliest  Popes  were  not  Kings  and  had  no 
budgets.  Consequently  they  had  no  annual  de- 
ficits to  make  up.  Consequently  they  were  not 
obliged  to  borrow  millions  of  M.  de  Eothschild. 
Consequently  they  were  more  independent  than 
the  crowned  Popes  of  more  recent  times.  Ever 
since  the  Spiritual  and  tlie  Temporal  have  been 
joined,  like  two  Siamese  powers,  the  most  august 
of  the  two  has  lost  its  independence.  Every  day, 
or  nearly  so,  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  finds  himself 
called  ,  apon  to  choose  between  the  general  in- 
terests  of   the   Church  and   the  private  interests 


liDMOMJ  ABOUT.  45 

of  his  CrowJi.  Think  you  that  lie  is  sufficiently 
estranged  from  the  things  of  this  world  to  sacritice 
heroically  the  Earth,  which  is  near,  to  the  Heaven 
which  is  remote?  Besides,  we  have  history  to 
help  us.  I  might,  if  I  chose,  refer  to  certain  bad 
Popes  who  were  capable  of  selling  the  dogma  of 
the  Holy  Trinity  for  half-a-dozen  leagues  of  terri- 
tory; but  it  would  be  hardly  fair  to  argue  from 
bad  Popes  to  the  confusion  of  indifferent  ones. 

Think  you,  however,  when  the  Pope  legalized, 
the  perjury  of  Francis  I.,  after  the  treaty  of  Ma- 
drid, he  did  it  to  make  the  morality  of  the  Holy 
See  respected,  or  to  stir  up  a  Avar  useful  to  his 
Crown?  When  he  organized  the  traffic  in  Indul- 
gences, and  threw  one-half  of  Europe  into  heresy, 
was  it  to  increase  the  number  of  Christians,  or  to 
give  a  dowry  to  a  young  lady  ?  .  .  ,  .  When  he 
suppressed  the  Order  of  the  Jesuits,  was  it  to  re- 
enforce  the  army  of  the  Church,  or  to  please  his 
master  in  France?  Wheji  he  terminated  his  rela- 
tions with  the  Spanish- American  provinces  upon 
their  proclaiming  their  independence,  was  it  in 
the  interests  of  the  Church  or  of  Spain?  .... 

But  this  union  of  powers,  which  would  gain  by 
separation,  compromises  not  only  the  independ- 
ence but  the  dignity  of  the  Pope.  The  melan- 
choly obligation  to  govern  men  obliges  him  to 
touch  many  things  which  he  had  better  leave 
alone.  Is  it  not  deplorable  that  bailiffs  must 
seize  a  debtor's  property  in  the  Pope's  name? 
that  judges  must  condemn  a  murderer  to  death  in 
the  name  of  the  Head  of  the  Church?  that  the 
executioner  must  cut  oi¥  heads  in  the  name  of 
the  Vicar  of  Christ?  There  is  to  me  something: 
scandalous  in  the  association  of  these  two  words, . 
Pontifical  Lottiri/.  And  what  can  the  hundred 
and  thirty-nine  millions  of  Catholics  think,  when 
they  hear  their  Spiritual  Sovereign  expressing', 
through  his  Finance  Minister,  his  satisfaction  at 
the  progress  of  vice  as  proved  by  the  success  of  i 
the  lotteries?— 77;e    Homan    Question,    Traml.   of':' 

COAPE. 


46  EDMOND  ABOUT. 

CHARACTER  OF   POPE   PIUS   IX. 

Pius  IX.  plays  his  part  in  tlie  gorgeous  shows 
of  the  Koman  Catholic  Church  indifferently  well. 
The  faithful  who  have  come  from  afar  to  see  him 
perform  Mass  are  a  little  surprised  to  see  him 
take  a  pinch  of  snuff  in  the  midst  of  the  azure- 
tinted  clouds  of  incense.  In  his  hours  of  leisure 
he  plays  billiards  for  exercise,  by  order  of  his 
physicians.  He  believes  in  God.  He  is  not  only 
a  good  Christian,  but  a  devotee.  His  morals  are 
pure  as  they  always  have  been,  even  when  he  was 
a  young  priest.  He  has  nephews,  who,  wonderful 
to  relate,  are  neither  rich  nor  powerful,  nor  even 
Princes:  and  yet  there  is  no  law  which  prevents 
him  from  spoiling  his  subjects  for  the  benefit  of 
his  family. 

The  character  of  this  respectable  old  man  is 
made  up  of  devotion,  simplicity,  vanity,  weak- 
ness, and  obstinacy,  with  an  occasional  touch  of 
rancor.  He  blesses  with  unction,  and  he  pardons 
with  difficulty.  He  is  a  good  Priest,  and  an  in- 
efficient King.  His  intellect,  which  raised  such 
great  hopes,  and  caused  such  cruel  disappoint- 
ment, is  of  a  very  ordinary  capacity.  The  Ro- 
mans formed  an  exaggerated  opinion  of  him  at 
his  accession,  and  have  done  so  ever  since.  In 
1847,  when  he  honestly  manifested  a  desire  to  do 
good,  they  called  him  a  great  man;  whereas  m 
point  of  fact  he  was  simply  a  worthy  man,  who 
wished  to  act  better  than  his  predecessors  had 
done,  and  thereby  to  win  some  applause  in  Eu- 
rope. Now  in  1859  he  passes  for  a  violent  re- 
actionist, because  events  have  discouraged  his 
good  intentions;  and,  above  all,  because  Cardinal 
Antonelli,  who  masters  him  by  fear,  violently 
draws  him  backward.  I  consider  him  as  merit- 
ing neither  past  admiration  nor  present  hatred. 
I  pity  him  for  having  loosened  the  rein  upon  his 
people,  without  possessing  the  firmness  to  re- 
strain them  seasonably.  I  pity  still  more  that 
infirmity  of  character  which  allows  more  evil  to 
be  done  in  his  name  than  he  has  ever  himself 
done  good 

Now  he  is  out  of  liumor  with  his  people,  witli 
the  French  and  witli  himself.  .  .  .  He  knows  the 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS.  47 

nation  is  suffering;  but  he  allows  himself  to  be 
persuaded  that  the  misfortunes  of  the  Nation  are 
indispensable  to  the  safety  of  the  Church.  Those 
about  him  take  care  that  the  reproaches  of  his 
conscience  shall  be  stifled  by  the  recollection  of 
1848,  and  the  dread  of  a  new  revolution.  He 
stops  his  eyes  and  his  ears,  and  prepares  to  die 
calmly  between  his  furious  subjects  on  the  one 
hand,  and  his  dissatisfied  protectors  on  the  other. 
Any  man  wanting  in  energy,  placed  as  he  is, 
would  behave  exactly  in  the  same  manner.  The 
fault  is  not  his,  it  is  that  of  weakness  and  old  age. 
—The  Romcm  Question,  Transl.  of  Coapk. 

THE   OUTLOOK   IX   1859. 

At  the  worst,  and  as  a  last  alternative,  the  Pope 
might  retain  the  city  of  Rome,  his  palaces  and 
temples,  his  cardinals  and  prelates,  his  priests 
and  monks,  his  princes  and  footmen:  and  Europe 
would  contribute  to  feed  the  little  colony.  But 
will  the  Pope  and  the  Cardinals  easily  resign 
themselves  to  the  condition  of  mere  Ministei-s  of 
Religion?  Will  they  renounce  their  political  in- 
fluence? Will  they  in  a  single  day  forget  their 
habits  of  interfering  hi  our  affairs,  of  arming 
Princes  against  one  another,  and  of  discreetly 
stirring  up  citizens  against  their  rulers?  I  much 
doubt  it.  But  on  the  other  hand  Princes  will 
avail  themselves  of  the  lawful  rights  of  self- 
defence.  They  will  read  history,  and  they  will 
find  there  that  the  really  strong  governments  are 
those  which  have  kept  religious  avithority  in  their 
own  hands;  that  the  Senate  of  Rome  did  not 
grant  the  priests  of  Carthage  lil^erty  to  preach 
in  Italy ;  that  the  Queen  of  England  and  the  Em- 
peror of  Russia  are  the  heads  of  the  Anglican  and 
Russian  religions;  and  they  will  see  that  by  right 
the  sovereign  metropolis  of  the  churches  of 
France  should  be  in  Paris. — IVie  Roiuon  Questio7>. 
Transl.  0/ Co  ape. 

•  ADAMS,  Abigail  (Smith),  wife  of  President 
John  Adams,  born  at  Weymouth,  Mass..  in 
1744,  died  at  Quincy,  Mass.  .Oct.  28, 1818.  She 
was  mai-ried  to  Mr.  Adams  in  1764,  and  was 
liis  constant  associate  during  his  whole  pubhc 


-48  ABIGAIL  ADAMS. 

career.  Their  correspondence  during  his  long 
absences  on  official  duty  take  almost  the  form 
of  a  journal  by  both  parties.  Some  of  the 
most  characteristic  productions  of  John 
Adams  were  written  in  letters  to  his  wife. 
In  1785  Mrs.  Adams  went  to  Europe,  where 
her  husband  was  residing  in  a  diplomatic 
capacity.  They  took  up  their  residence  at 
Auteuil,  a  village  some  miles  from  Paris.  In 
letters  home  Mrs.  Adams  describes  their  way 
of  life: 

LIFE   IN   FRANCE. 

The  house  we  have  taken  is  large,  commodious, 
and  agreeably  situated  near  the  woods  of  Bou- 
logne, which  belong  to  the  King,  and  which  Mr. 
Adams  calls  his  park,  for  he  walks  an  hour  or  two 
every  day  in  them.  The  house  is  much  larger 
than  we  have  need  of;  upon  occasion  forty  beds 
may  be  made  in  it.  I  fancy  it  must  be  very  cold 
in  winter.  There  are  few  houses  with  the  priv- 
ilege which  this  enjoys,  of  having  the  saloon,  as 
it  is  called — the  apartment  where  we  receive  com- 
pany— ui^ou  the  fust  floor.  The  dining-room  is 
upon  the  right  hand,  and  tlie  saloon  upon  the  left, 
of  the  entry,  which  has  large  glass  doors  opposite 
to  each  other,  one  opening  into  the  court,  as  they 
call  it,  the  other  into  a  large  and  beautiful  garden. 
Out  of  the  dining-room  you  pass  through  an  entry 
into  the  kitchen.  In  this  entry  are  stairs  which 
you  ascend;  at  the  top  of  which  is  a  long  gallery 
fronting  the  street,  with  six  windows,  and  op- 
posite to  each  window  you  open  into  the  cham- 
bers, which  all  look  into  the  garden. 

But  with  an  expense  of  thirty  thousand  livres 
in  looking-glasses,  there  is  no  table  in  the  house 
better  than  an  oak  board,  nor  a  carpet  belonging 
to  the  house.  The  floors  I  abhor,  made  of  red 
tiles.  These  floors  will  by  no  means  bear  water; 
so  the  method  of  cleaning  them  is  to  have  theft 
waxed,  and  then  a  man-servant  with  foot-brushes 
drives  round  your  room,  dancing  here  and  there 
like  a  merry-andrew.  This  is  calculated  to  take 
from  vour  foot  everv  atom  of  dirt,  and  leave  the 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS.  49 

room  in  a  few  moments  as  he  found  it.  The  din- 
ing-rooms, of  Avhicli  you  make  no  otlier  use,  are 
laid  with  small  stones,  like  the  red  tiles  for  sliape 
and  size.  The  servants'  rooms  are  generally  upon 
the  first  floor,  and  the  stairs,  which  you  commonly 
have  to  ascend  to  get  into  the  family  apartments, 
are  so  dirty  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  hold  up 
my  clothes,  as  though  I  were  passing  through  a 
cow-yard. 

You  may  easily  suppose  that  I  have  been  fully 
employed,  beginning  housekeeping  anew,  and 
arranging  my  family,  to  my  no  small  expense 
and  trouble ;  for  I  have  had  bed-linen,  and  table 
linen  to  purchase  and  make,  spoons  and  forks  to 
get  made  of  silver — three  dozen  of  each — besides 
tea-furniture,  china  for  the  table,  servants  to  pro- 
cure, etc.  The  expenses  of  living  abroad  I  have 
always  supposed  to  be  high,  but  my  ideas  were 
nowise  adequate  to  the  thing.  I  could  have  fur- 
nished myself  in  the  town  of  Boston  with  every 
thing  I  have,  twenty  or  thirty  per  cent,  cheaper. 
Everything  which  will  bear  the  name  of  elegant 
is  imjjorted  from  England;  and,  if  you  will  have 
it,  you  must  pay  for  it,  duties  and  all.  .  .  .  The 
only  gauze  fit  to  wear  is  English,  at  a  crown  a 
yard ;  so  that  really  a  guinea  goes  no  further  than 
a  cojjper  with  us. 

For  this  house,  garden,  stables,  etc.,  we  give 
two  hundred  guineas  a  year.  Wood  is  two  guineas 
and  a-lialf  per  cord;  coal  six  livres  the  basket  of 
about  two  bushels;  this  article  of  firing  we  cal- 
culate at  one  hundred  guineas  a  year.  The  differ- 
ence between  coming  to  this  negotiation  to  France 
and  remaining  at  the  Hague,  where  a  house  was 
already  furnished  at  an  expense  of  a  thousand 
pounds  sterling,  will  increase  the  expense  here  by 
six  or  seven  hundred  guineas,  at  a  time,  too,  when 
Congress  have  cut  off  five  hundred  guineas  from 
what  they  have  hitherto  given.  For  our  coach- 
man and  horses  alone  we  give  fifteen  guineas  a 
month.  It  is  the  policy  of  this  country  to  oblige 
you  to  a  certain  number  of  servants,  and  one  will 
not  touch  what  belongs  to  the  business  of  another, 
though  he  or  she  has  time  enough  to  perform  the 
wliole.  .  .  .  We  have  a  servant  who  acts  as  ma'itre 
4 


50  ABIGAIL  ADAMS. 

d'' hotel,  and  wlio  is  so  very  ^s^racious  as  to  act  as 
footman,  too,  to  save  the  expense  of  another  ser- 
vant, upon  condition  that  we  give  him  a  gentle- 
man's suit  of  clothes  instead  of  a  livery.  Thus 
with  seven  servants,  and  hiring  a  char-woman 
upon  occasion,  we  may  possibly  make  out  to  keep 
house.  With  less,  we  should  be  hooted  at  as 
ridiculous,  and  could  not  entertain  any  com- 
pany. .  .  . 

I  have  become  steward  and  book-keeper,  de- 
termined to  know  with  accuracy  what  our  ex- 
penses are,  and  to  prevail  upon  Mr.  Adams  to  re- 
turn to  America,  if  he  finds  himself  straitened, 
as  I  think  he  must  be.  Mr.  Jay  went  home  be- 
cause he  could  not  support  his  family  here,  with 
the  whole  salary;  what  then  can  be  done,  cur- 
tailed as  it  now  is,  with  the  additional  expense  ? 
Mr.  Adams  is  to  keep  as  little  company  as  he 
possibly  can,  but  some  entertainments  we  must 
make,  and  it  is  no  unusual  thing  for  them  to 
amount  to  fifty  or  sixty  guineas  at  a  time.  More 
is  to  be  performed  by  way  of  negotiation,  many 
times  at  these  entertainments,  than  at  twenty 
serious  conversations;  but  the  i^olicy  of  our 
country  has  been,  and  still  is,  to  be  penny-wise 
and  pound-foolish.  But  my  own  interest  apart, 
the  system  is  bad  for  that  nation  which  degrades 
its  own  ministers,  by  obliging  them  to  live  in 
narrow  circumstances 

I  will  add  one  more  expense:  There  is  now  a 
Court-mourning,  and  every  foreign  minister,  with 
his  family,  must  go  into  mourning  for  a  Prince  of 
eight  years  old,  whose  father  was  an  ally  to  the 
King  of  France.  This  mourning  is  ordered  by 
the  Court,  and  is  to  be  worn  eleven  days  only. 
Poor  Mr.  Jefferson  hud  to  hie  away  for  a  tailor  to 
get  a  whole  black  suit  made  up  in  two  days;  and 
at  the  end  of  eleven  days,  should  another  death 
happen,  he  will  be  obliged  to  have  a  new  suit  of 
mourning  of  cloth,  because  that  is  the  season 
when  silk  must  be  left  off.  We  may  groan  and 
scold;  but  these  are  exj^enses  which  cannot  be 
avoided;  for  Fashion  is  the  deity  which  every  one 
worships  in  this  country;  and.  from  the  highest 
f-o  riie  lowest,   vou  must  submit.     To  be  ou<"  <^<' 


^ 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS.  51 

fashion  is  to  be  more  criminal  than  to  be  seen  in 
a  state  of  nature— to  which  Parisians  are  not 
averse. — Letter  to  her  Sister,  Sept.  5,  178-4. 

Tn  1785  Mr.  Adams  took  up  his  abode  in 
London,  as  Minister  Resident  at  the  British 
Court.  Mrs.  Adams  gives  some  chatty  ac- 
counts of  her  experiences  in  this  new  sphere 
of  life: 

PKESENTATIOX   AT   THE   BKITISU   COUKT. 

The  ceremony  of  presentation  hei-e  is  considered 
as  indispensable.  One  is  obliged  here  to  attend 
the  "Circles"  of  the  Queen,  which  are  held  in 
summer  once  a  fortnij:!ht,  but  once  a  week  the 
rest  of  the  year,  and  what  renders  it  exceedingly 
expensive  is,  that  you  cannot  go  twice  the  same 
season  in  the  same  dress,  and  a  Court  dress  you 
cannot  make  use  of  anywhere  else.  I  directed 
my  mantua-maker  to  let  my  dress  be  elegant,  but 
plain,  as  I  could  possibly  appear  with  decency. 
Accordingly,  it  is  white  lutestring,  covered  and 
full-trimmed  with  white  crape,  festooned  with 
lilac  ribbon  and  mock  point-lace,  over  a  loop  of 
enormous  extent.  There  is  only  a  narrow  train 
of  about  three  yards  in  length,  to  the  gown  waist, 
which  is  put  into  a  ribbon  on  the  left  side — the 
Queen  only  having  her  train  borne.  Ruffle  cuffs 
for  married  ladies,  treble  lace  ruffles,  a  very  di'ess- 
cap  with  long  lace  lappets,  two  white  plumes,  and 
a  blonde  lace  handkerchief.  This  is  my  rigging. 
I  should  have  mentioned  two  pearl  pins  in  my 
hair,  ear-rings  and  necklace  of  the  same  kind.  .  .  . 

At  two  o'clock  we  went  to  the  circle,  which  is 
the  drawing-room  of  the  Queen.  We  passed 
through  several  apartments,  lined  as  usual,  with 
spectators  on  these  occasions.  We  were  placed  in 
a  circle  round  the  drawing-room,  which  was  very 
full;  I  believe  two  hundred  persons  present. 

Only  think  of  the  task!  The  Royal  Family 
have  to  go  round  to  every  person,  and  find  small 
talk  enough  to  speak  to  all  of  them;  though  they 
very  prudently  speak  in  a  whisper,  so  that  only 
the  person  who  stands  next  you  can  hear  what  is 
said.     The  King  enters  the  room,  and  goes  roimd 


52  ABIGAIJ.  ADAMS. 

to  the  rij^ht;  the  Queen  and  Princesses  to  tha 
left.  The  loid-in-waiting  presents  you  to  the 
King;  and  the  lady-in-waiting  does  the  same  to 
Hei-  Majesty.  Tlie  King  is  a  personable  man;  but, 
he  has  a  certain  countenance  which  I  have  often 
remarked;  a  red  face,  and  white  eyebrows.  The 
Queen  has  a  similar  countenance,  and  the  numer- 
ous Royal  Family  confirm  the  observation. 

Persons  are  not  placed  according  to  their  rank 
in  the  drawing-room,  but  promiscuously;  and 
when  the  King  comes  in  he  takes  persons  as  they 
stand.  When  he  came  to  me,  Lord  Onslow  said : 
"Mrs.  Adams;"  upon  which  I  drew  off  my  right 
glove,  and  His  Majesty  saluted  my  left  cheek; 
then  asked  me  if  I  had  taken  a  walk  to-day.  I 
could  have  told  His  Majesty  that  I  had  been  all 
the  morning  preparing  to  wait  upon  him,  but  I 
replied,  ""No,  Sire." — '•  Why,  don't  you  love  walk- 
ing?" says  he. — I  answered  that  I  was  rather  in- 
dolent in  that  respect.  He  then  bowed,  and 
passed  on. 

It  was  more  than  two  hours  after  this  before  it 
came  to  my  turn  to  be  presented  to  the  Queen. 
The  circle  was  so  large  that  the  company  were 
four  hours  standing.  The  Queen  was  evidently 
embarrassed  when  I  was  presented  to  her.  I  had 
disagreeable  fe'iings  too.  She,  however,  said, 
"Mrs.  Adams,  have  you  got  into  your  house? 
Pray,  how  do  you  like  the  situation  of  it?" 
Whilst  the  Princess  Royal  looked  compassionate, 
and  asked  me  if  I  was  not  very  much  fatigued ; 
and  observed  that  it  was  a  very  full  drawing- 
room.  Her  sister,  who  came  next.  Princess  Au- 
gusta, after  having  asked  your  niece  if  she  was 
ever  in  England  before,  and  upon  her  answering 
"Yes,"  inquired  of  me  ho^v  long  ago,  and  sup- 
posed it  was  when  she  was  very  young.  And  all 
this  is  said  with  much  affability,  and  the  ease  and 
freedom  of  old  acquaintance. 

The  manner  in  which  they  make  their  tour 
around  the  room  is:  first  the  Queen,  the  lady-in- 
waiting  behind  her,  holding  up  her  train;  next  to 
her  the  Princess  Royal;  after  her,  Princess  Au- 
gusta, and  their  lady-in-waiting  behind  them. 
They    are    pretty,   i-ather    than    beautiful.,    well- 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS.  53" 

shaped,  with  fair  complexions,  and  a  tincture  of 
the  King's  countenance.  The  two  sisters  look 
much  alike ;  they  were  both  dressed  in  black  and 
silver  silk,  with  a  silver  netting  upon  the  coat,  and 
their  heads  full  of  diamond  pins.  The  Queen  was 
in  purple  and  silver.  She  is  not  well-shaped  nor 
handsome.  As  to  the  ladies  of  the  Court,  rank 
and  title  may  compensate  for  want  of  personal 
charms;  but  they  are,  in  general,  very  plain,  ill- 
shaped,  and  ugly.  If  one  wants  to  see  beauty, 
one  must  go  to  Ranelagh;  there  it  is  collected  in 
one  bright  constellation.  There  were  two  ladies 
very  elegant  at  Court — Lady  Salisbury  and  Lady 
Talbot;  but  the  observation  did  not  in  general 
hold  good,  that  fine  feathers  make  line  birds.  I 
saw  many  who  were  vastly  richer  dressed  than 
your  friends;  but  I  will  venture  to  say,  that  I  saw 
none  neater  or  more  elegant;  which  praise  I 
ascribe  to  the  taste  of  Mrs.  Temple  and  my  man- 
tua-maker;  for,  after  having  declared  that  I  would 
not  have  any  foil  or  tinsel  about  me,  they  fixed 
upon  the  dress  I  have  described. 

The  Tories  are  very  free  with  their  compli- 
ments. Scarcely  a  paper  escapes  without  some 
scurrility.  We  bear  it  with  silent  contempt;  hav- 
ing met  with  a  polite  reception  at  Court,  it  bites 
them  like  a  serpent,  and  stings  them  like  an  ad- 
der. As  to  the  success  the  negotiations  may  meet 
with,  time  alone  can  disclose  tlie  result.  But  if 
this  nation  does  not  suffer  itself  to  be  again 
duped,  by  the  artifice  of  some  and  the  malice  of 
others,  it  will  unite  itself  with  America  on  the 
most  liberal  principles  and  sentiments. — Letters  to 
her  iS'(s<er,  June,  1785. 

Mr.  Adams  became  President  by  the  elec- 
tion of  1796;  and  was  defeated  at  the  next 
election  in  1800.  The  Seat  of  Government 
being  transferred  to  Washington,  President 
Adams  and  his  family  took  up  their  residence 
there  late  in  November,  for  the  few  months 
which  were  to  intervene  until  the  close  of  his 
term.  Mx*s.  Adams,  writing  to  her  daughter, 
gives  some  account  of  the  aspects  of  the  nev. 
Federal  capital.  - 


64  ABIGAIL  ADAMS. 

WASHINGTON   IN   1800. 

I  arrived  here  Avithout  meeting  with  any  ac- 
cident worth  noticing  except  losing  ourselves 
when  we  left  Baltimore,  and  going  eight  or  nine 
miles  on  the  Frederick  road,  by  which  means  we 
were  obliged  to  go  the  other  eight  through  the 
woods,  where  we  wandered  two  hours  without 
finding  a  guide  or  the  path.  Fortunately  a  strag- 
gling black  came  up  with  us,  and  we  engaged  him 
as  a  guide,  to  extricate  us  out  of  the  difficulty. 
But  woods  are  all  you  see,  from  Baltimore  luitil 
you  reach  the  City,  which  is  so  only  in  name. 
Here  and  there  is  a  small  cot,  without  a  glass 
window,  interspersed  among  the  forests,  through 
which  you  travel  miles  without  seeing  any  human 
being. 

In  the  City  there  are  buildings  enough,  if  they 
were  compact  and  finished,  to  accommodate  Con- 
gress and  those  attached  to  it;  but  as  they  are, 
and  scattered  as  they  are,  I  see  no  great  comfort 
for  them.  The  house  is  upon  a  grand  and  superb 
scale,  requiring  about  thirty  servants  to  attend 
and  keep  the  apartments  in  proper  order,  and  per- 
form the  ordinary  business  of  the  house  and 
stables ;  an  establishment  very  well  in-oportioned 
to  the  President's  salary!  The  lighting  the  apart- 
ments, from  the  kitchen  to  f»arlors  and  chambers, 
is  a  tax  indeed ;  and  the  fires  we  are  obliged  to 
keep,  to  secure  us  from  daily  agues  is  another 
very  cheering  comfort.  To  assist  us  in  this  great 
castle,  and  render  less  attendance  necessary,  bells 
are  wholly  wanting;  not  one  being  hung  through 
the  whole  house,  and  promises  are  all  you  can 
obtain.  If  they  will  put  me  up  some  bells,  and 
let  mo  have  wood  enough  to  keep  fires,  I  design 
to  be  pleased.  I  could  content  myself  almost 
anywhere  for  three  months;  but  surrounded  with 
forests,  can  you  believe  that  wood  is  not  to  be 
had,  because  people  cannot  be  found  to  cut  and 
cart  it?  ...  . 

You  must  keep  all  this  to  yourself;  and.  when 
asked  how  I  like  it,  say  that  I  write  to  you  that 
the  situation  is  beautiful — which  is  ti-ue.  The 
house  is  made  habitable;  but  there  is  not  a  single 
apartment  finished;    and   all  inside,   except  the 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS.  55 

plastering  has  been  done  since  Briesler  came. 
We  have  not  the  least  fence,  yard,  or  other  con- 
venience, without;  and  the  great  unfinished  au- 
dience-room I  make  a  drying-room  of,  to  hang  up 
clothes  in.  The  principal  stairs  are  not  up,  and 
will  not  be  this  winter.  Six  chambers  are  made 
comfortable;  two  are  occupied  by  the  Pi'esident 
and  Mr.  Shaw;  two  lower  rooms,  one  for  a  com- 
mon parlor,  and  one  for  a  levee-room.  Up  stairs 
there  is  the  oval  room,  which  is  designed  for  the 
drawing-room,  and  has  the  crimson  furniture  in 
it;  it  is  a  very  handsome  room  now;  but  when 
completed  it  will  be  beautiful.  If  the  twelve 
years,  in  which  this  place  has  been  considered  the 
future  Seat  of  Government,  had  been  improved, 
as  they  would  have  been  if  in  New  England,  very 
many  of  the  present  inconveniences  would  have 
been  removed.  It  is  a  beautiful  spot,  capable  of 
every  improvement;  and  the  more  I  view  it  the 
more  I  am  delighted  with  it.  .  .  . — Letter  to  her 
Daughter,  Nov.  21,  1800. 

AT   THE   WHITE   HOUSE. 

Two  articles  we  are  very  much  distressed  for: 
the  one  is  bells,  but  the  more  important  one  is 
wood;  yet  you  cannot  see  wood  for  trees.  No 
arrangement  has  been  made,  but  by  promises 
never  performed,  to  supply  the  new-comeis  with 
fuel.  Of  the  promises  Briesler  had  leceived  his 
full  share.  He  had  procured  nine  cords  of  wood; 
between  six  and  seven  of  that  was  kindly  burnt 
up  to  dry  the  walls  of  the  house,  which  ought  to 
have  been  done  by  the  Commissioners;  but  which, 
if  left  to  them,  would  have  remained  undone  to 
this  day.  Congress  poured  in:  but  shiver,  shiver. 
No  wood-cutters  nor  carters  to  be  had  at  any  rate. 
We  are  now  indebted  to  a  Pennsylvania  wagon  to 
bring  us,  through  the  First  Clerk  in  the  Treasury 
Office,  one  cord  and  a-half  of  wood,  which  is  all 
we  have  for  this  house  where  twelve  fires  are  con- 
stantly required;  and  where,  we  are  told,  the 
roads  will  soon  be  so  bad  tliat  it  cannot  be  drawn. 
Briesler  procured  two  hundred  bushels  of  coals, 
or  we  must  have  suffered.  This  is  the  situation 
of  almost  every  person.     The  public  officers  have 


56  CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS. 

been  sent  to  Philadelphia  for  wood-cutters  and 
wagons.  .  .  . 

The  vessel  which  has  my  clothes  and  other  mat- 
ters is  not  arrived.  The  ladies  are  impatient  for  a 
drawing  room;  I  have  no  looking-glasses  but 
dwarfs  for  this  house ;  nor  a  twentieth  part  lamps 
enough  to  light  it.  Many  things  were  stolen, 
many  more  were  broken,  by  removal.  Amongst 
the  number,  my  tea  china  is  more  than  half  miss- 
ing. Georgetown  affords  nothing.  My  rooms  are 
very  pleasant  and  warm  whilst  the  doors  of  the 
hall  are  closed.  .  .  . 

My  visitors,  some  of  them,  come  three  and  four 
miles.  The  return  of  one  of  them  is  the  work  of 
one  day.  Most  of  the  ladies  reside  in  (George- 
town, or  in  scattered  parts  of  the  city  at  two  and 
three  miles  distance.  .  .  .  We  have  all  been  very 
well  as  yet.  If  we  can  by  any  means  get  wood,  we 
shall  not  let  our  fires  go  out;  but  it  is  at  a  price 
indeed:  from  four  dollars  it  has  risen  to  nine. 
Some  day  it  will  fall;  but  there  must  be  more  in- 
dustry than  is  to  be  found  here,  to  bring  half 
enough  to  the  market  for  the  consumption  of  the 
inhabitants. — Letter  to  her  Bawjhter,  Nov.  27, 1800. 

ADAMS,  Charles  Francis,  son  of  President 
John  Quincy  Adams.  Avas  born  at  Boston, 
Aug.  18,  1807.  His  father  having  been  ap- 
pointed to  diplomatic  positions  in  Europe,  the 
early  boyhood  of  the  son  was  passed  abroad. 
Returning  to  the  United  States  in  1817  he  en- 
tered Harvard  College,  where  he  graduated 
in  182.5,  and  in  1838  was  admitted  to  the  bar. 
But  he  never  engaged  in  legal  practice,  hav- 
ing previously  married  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  merchant  of  Boston.  He  entered 
into  political  life  about  1840,  as  a  member  of 
the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts,  and  in  1848 
was  nominated  by  the  "  Free  Soil  "  party  as 
their  candidate  for  the  Vice  Presidency. 
The  new  "Republican  "  party  was  organized 
some  years  after,  and  in  1858  Mr.  Adams  was 
elected  as  representative  in  Congress  from 
Massachusetts.     In  18fil  he  was  sent  as  Minis- 


CHAKLE.S  FKANCLS  ADAMS.  57 

ter  to  Great  Britain,  holding  the  position  dur- 
ing the  whole  civil  war  and  until  1868,  when 
he  was  recalled  at  his  own  request.  In  1871- 
72  he  acted  as  arbitrator  for  the  United  States 
in  the  commission  appointed  to  settle  the 
questions  between  Great  Britain  and  the 
United  States  arising  during  the  civil  war. 
In  1872  he  was  prominent  in  organizing  the 
"Liberal  Republican"  movement,  and  was 
brought  forward  as  a  candidate  for  the  Presi- 
dency. Mr.  Horace  Greeley  was  however, 
chosen  as  the  candidate  of  the  party,  and  was 
also  accepted  by  the  Democratic  party,  but 
he  failed  in  securing  an  election.  In  1872 
Mr.  Adams  formally  joined  the  Democratic 
party,  by  whom,  in  1876,  he  was  nominated 
for  Governor  of  Massachusetts. 

The  contributions  of  Mr.  Charles  Francis 
Adams  to  literature  have  been  very  numer- 
ous, including  several  able  papers  furnished 
to  the  North  American  Review  and  other  pe- 
riodicals. But  his  most  notable  literary 
works  are  biographico-historical,  relating  to 
his  grandfather,  John  Adams,  his  grand- 
mother, Abigail  Adams,  and  his  father,  John 
Quincy  Adams.  His  Life  and  Woi'ks  of  John 
Adams,  in  10  volumes,  appeared  in  1850-56. 
The  preface  to  this  work  sets  forth  his  own 
ideas  in  respect  to  the  task  which  had  de- 
volved upon  him: 

THE   CAREER   OF   JOHN    ADAMS. 

The  editor  had  reason  to  know  that  he  was 
looked  iipon  as  the  successor  to  this  duty,  and 
that,  in  this  view  all  the  manuscripts,  books,  and 
papers  relating  to  it  were  to  he  committed  to  his 
care.  Whatever  might  have  been  his  doubts  of 
his  own  abilities  to  execute  it,  little  room  was 
left  him  to  indulge  them.  To  say  that  he  has  ac- 
quitted himself  of  his  obligation  to  his  own  satis- 
faction, is  more  than  he  will  venture  to  pretend. 
All  that  he  will  venture  to  claim  for  himself  is  an 
earnest  desire  to  be  right,  and  an  endeavor,  by  no 


58  CHAKLES  FKANCIS  ADAMS. 

trifling  amount  of  industry,  to  become  so.  That 
lie  may  in  many  instances  have  fallen  short  of  his 
aim  will  not  surprise  him.  Infallibility  in  such  a 
department  of  investigation  is  altogether  out  of 
the  question.  The  writer  has  detected  too  many 
mistakes  in  his  own  work,  and  observed  too  many 
in  the  productions  of  others,  to  cherish  a  spirit  of 

dogmatism 

So  much  has  been  said  upon  the  duties  of  editors 
in  publishing  the  papers  committed  to  their  care, 
that  a  few  words  may  be  necessary  to  explain  the 
principles  upon  which  this  work  has  been  con- 
ducted :  In  all  cases  the  best  copy  attainable 
has  been  closely  adhered  to,  sa\ing  only  the  cor- 
rection of  obvious  errors  of  haste,  or  inadvertency, 
or  negligence.  Yet  as  a  considerable  number  of 
the  letters  have  been  taken  not  from  the  originals 
— of  wliich  it  is  not  known  that  they  are  yet  ex- 
tant— but  from  tlie  copy-book  containing  the 
rough  drafts,  it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that, 
in  case  of  a  possibility  of  collation  with  the  real 
letters,  many  discrepancies,  not  to  say  interpola- 
tions, and  even  erasures — may  be  discovered. 
Should  such  instances  be  brought  to  light,  it  is 
proper  that  this  explanation  should  stand  upon 
record  to  guard  against  charges  of  alteration. 
Against  such  variations  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  pi'ovide,  without  materially  contract- 
ing the  valuable  materials  for  the  work.  For  all 
others,  the  editor  lias  acted  upon  his  own  respon- 
sibility, and  for  reasons  which  api^ear  to  him  sat- 
isfactory.— Preface  to  the  Works  of  John  Adams. 

Mr.  Charles  F.  Adams,  in  closing  this  ex- 
haustive -work  relating  to  his  grandfather, 
adds  :  "  These  volumes  by  no  means  exhaust 
the  valuable  materials  in  the  possession  of  the 
editor  for  the  illustration  of  the  era  of  the 
Revolution;  neither  do  they  in  the  least  en- 
croach upon  the  yet  larger  stores  in  reserve 
for  the  other  work  intended  for  publication  at 
a  future  period,  and  destined  in  giving  the 
Life  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  to  elucidate  the 
history  of  the  generation   immediately  sue 


CHARLES  FRANCIS  ADAMS.  59 

ceeding."— Nearly  a  score  of  years  elapsed 
before  Charles  Francis  Adams  fairly  entered 
ui^on  the  second  part  of  the  work  which  he 
regarded  as  having  devolved  upon  him,  by 
the  publication  of  The  Memoirs  of  John  Quincy 
Adams  (13  vols.  1874-76).  The  preface  to  this 
w^ork  clearly  sets  forth  his  own  view  upon 
what  he  designates  as  "'  the  next,  and  far  the 
most  difficult  part"  of  these  biographico-his . 
torical  memoi'i-xk : 

THE   CAREER  OF   JOHN   QUINCY    ADAMS. 

The  papers  left  by  Jolm  Quincy  Adams  were 
not  only  much  more  numerous,  but  they  embraced 
a  far  wider  variety  of  topics.  Whilst  the  public 
career  of  the  father  scarcely  covered  28  years, 
that  of  the  son  stretched  beyond  53.  The  chief 
difficulties  of  the  enterprise  has  grown  out  of  the 
exuberance  of  the  materials.  Not  many  persons 
have  left  behind  them  a  greater  variety  of  papers 
than  John  Quincy  Adams,  all  more  or  less  marked 
by  characteristic  modes  of  thought,  and  illustrat- 
ing his  principles  of  public  life  and  private  action. 
Independently  of  a  Diary  kept  almost  continuously 
for  65  years,  and  numbers  of  other  productions — 
official  and  otherwise — there  is  a  variety  of  dis- 
cussion and  criticism  on  different  topics,  together 
with  correspondence,  public  and  private,  which,  if 
it  were  all  to  be  published,  as  was  that  of  Vol- 
taire, would  be  likely  quite  to  equal  in  quantity 
the  hundred  volumes  of  that  expansive  writer. 
But  this  example  of  Voltaire  is  one  which  might 
properly  serve  as  a  lesson  for  warning  rather  than 
for  imitation.  .  .  . 

The  chief  objects  to  be  attained  by  publishing 
the  papers  of  eminent  men  seem  to  be  the  elucida- 
tion of  the  history  of  the  times  in  which  they 
acted  and  of  the  extent  to  which  they  exercised  a 
personal  intiuence  upon  opinion,  as  well  as  upon 
events.  Where  the  materials  to  gain  these  ends 
may  be  drawn  directly  from  their  own  testimony, 
it  would  be  far  more  advisable  to  adopt  them  at 
once,  as  they  stand  than  to  substitute  explana- 
tions or  disquisitions,  the  offspring  of  imperfect 


60  HANNAH  A1)A?,1S. 

impressions  gathered  long  afterward  at  secona- 
hand.  It  so  liappens  that  in  the  present  instance 
there  remains  a  record  of  life  carefully  kept  by 
John  Quincy  Adams  for  nearly  the  whole  of  his 
active  days.  It  may  reasonably  be  doubted 
whether  any  attempt  of  the  kind  has  been  more 

completely  executed  by  a  public  man 

Very  fortunately  for  this  undertaking,  the 
days  have  passed  [1874]  when  the  bitterness  of 
party-spirit  prevented  the  possibility  of  ari'iviug 
at  calm  judgments  of  human  action  during  the 
period  to  which  it  relates.  Another  more  fearful 
conflict,  not  resti-ained  within  the  limits  of  contro- 
versy, however  passionate,  has  so  far  changed  the 
currents  of  American  feeling  as  to  throw  all  ear- 
lier recollections  at  once  into  the  remote  domain 
called  'History.'  It  seems,  then,  a  suitable 
moment  for  the  submission  to  the  public  of  the 
testimony  of  one  of  the  leading  actors  in  the  ear- 
lier era  of  the  Eepublic.  In  my  labors  I  have  con- 
fined myself  strictly  to  the  duty  of  explanation 
and  illustration  of  what  time  may  have  rendered 
obsolete  in  the  text.  Whatever  does  there  appear 
remains  just  as  the  author  wrote  it.  Wliether  for 
weal  or  woe,  he  it  is  who  has  made  his  own  ped- 
estal, whei'eon  to  take  his  stand,  to  be  judged  by 
posterity,  so  far  as  that  verdict  may  fall  within 
the  province  of  all  later  generations  of  mankind. 
— Preface  to  Memoirs  of  John  Quincy  Adams. 

ADAMS,  Hannah,  born  at  Dedham,  Mass., 
in  1756,  died  near  Boston  in  1832.  She  was 
the  first  woman  in  America  to  devote  herself 
to  authorship.  Her  father,  a  man  of  good 
education,  kept  a  small  country  store,  dealing 
among  other  things  in  books.  He  also  boarded 
some  students  of  divinity,  from  whom  the 
daughter  learned  Greek  and  Latin,  which 
she  subsequently  taught.  Her  first  work  A 
View  of  Religioiis  Opinions,  was  published  in 
1784,  and  a  second  and  enlarged  edition  in 
1791.  "  The  emolument  I  derived  from  this," 
she  says,  ' '  not  only  placed  me  in  a  comfort- 
able situation,  but  enabled  me  to  pay   the 


HANNAH  ADAMS.  61 

debts  I  had  contracted  during  mine  and  my 
sister's  illness,  and  to  put  out  a  small  sum  at 
interest."  In  171)9  she  published  A  Summary 
History  of  New  England,  from  the  settlement 
at  Plymouth  to  the  adoj^tion  of  the  Federal 
Constitution.  In  gathering  materials  for 
this  work  among  old  manuscripts,  she  sei'i- 
ously  impaired  her  eyesight,  and  had  to  em- 
ploy an  amanuensis  to  prepare  the  copy  for 
the  printers.  Her  most  elaborate  work,  The 
History  of  the  Jews  since  the  destruction  of 
Jerusalem,  was  in  1818  reprinted  in  London, 
"at  the  expense  and  for  the  benefit  of  the 
London  Society  for  Promoting  Christianity 
amongst  the  Jews. "  She  commenced  an  Auto- 
biography, which  was  continued  down  to  her 
death  by  Mrs.  H.  F.  Lee.  During  the  later 
years  of  her  life  she  enjoyed  a  comfortable 
annuity,  raised  by  her  friends. 

CHUKCn   AND    STATE    IN    MASSACnrSETTS. 

Most  of  the  Massachusetts  settlers  had,  while 
in  their  native  country,  lived  in  communion  with 
the  Established  Church.  The  rigorous  severity- 
used  to  enforce  ceremonies,  by  them  deemed  un- 
lawful, occasioned  their  removal  to  New  England. 
The  Massachusetts  churches,  in  general,  were 
formed  on  the  Congregational  model,  and  main- 
tained Calvinistic  doctrines.  The  colony  had  no 
settled  plan  of  church  discipline  till  after  the  ar- 
rival of  Mr.  John  Cotton,  whose  opinion  in  civil 
and  religious  concerns  was  held  in  the  highest 
estimation.  He  gradually  modelled  all  their 
church  administrations,  and  determiiied  their 
ecclesiastical  constitutions.  ...  In  consequence 
of  the  union  thus  formed  between  Churclv  and 
State,  on  the  plan  of  the  Jewish  Theocracy,  the 
ministers  were  called  to  sit  in  Council,  and  give 
their  advice  in  matters  of  religion,  and  cases  of 
conscience  which  came  before  the  Court,  and 
without  them  they  never  proceeded  to  any  act  of 
an  ecclesiastical  nature. 

None  were  allowed  to  vote  in  the  election  of 
rulers  but  freemen,  and  freemen  must  be  church 


02  HANNAH  ADAMS. 

members;  and  as  none  could  be  admitted  into  the 
church  but  by  the  Elders,  who  first  examined  and 
then  propounded  them  to  the  brethren  for  their 
vote,  the  Clergy  acquired  hereby  a  vast  ascendancy 
over  both  rulers  and  people,  and  had,  in  effect, 
the  keys  of  the  State  as  well  as  the  Church  in  their 
hands.  The  Magistrates  on  the  other  hand,  regu- 
lated the  gathering  of  the  churches,  interposed  in 
the  settlement  and  dismission  of  ministers,  arbi- 
trated in  ecclesiastical  controversies,  and  con- 
trolled synodical  assemblies.  This  coercive  power 
of  the  Magistrates  was  deemed  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  preserve  the  order  of  the  Gospel. — History 
of  New  England. 

MERITS   OF  THE   MASSACHUSETTS   COLONISTS. 

Though  the  conduct  of  our  ancestors,  in  the  ap- 
plication of  the  power  of  the  civil  magistrate  to 
religious  concerns,  was  fraught  with  error,  and 
the  liberal  sentiments  of  the  present  age  place 
their  eiTors  in  the  most  conspicuous  point  of  view, 
yet  their  memory  ought  ever  to  be  held  in  venera- 
tion. And  while  Ave  review  the  imperfections 
which,  at  present,  cast  a  shade  over  their  charac- 
ters, we  ought  to  recollect  those  virtues  by  which 
they  gave  lustre  to  the  age  in  which  they  lived; 
viz. :  their  ardent  love  of  liberty,  when  tyranny 
prevailed  in  Church  and  State;  the  fortitude  with 
which  they  sacrificed  ease  and  opulence,  and  en- 
countered complicated  hardships,  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  sacred  rights  of  conscience;  their  care  to 
lay  a  foundation  for  solid  learning,  and  establish 
wise  and  useful  institutions  in  their  infant  State; 
the  immense  pains  they  took  in  settling  and  culti- 
vating their  lands,  and  defending  the  country 
against  the  depredations  of  the  surrounding  In- 
dians; and,  above  all,  their  supreme  regard  for 
religion.  .  .  . 

The  Massachusetts  Colony  rapidly  increased. 
A  dreary  wilderness  in  the  space  of  a  few  years 
had  become  a  comfortable  habitation,  furnished 
with  the  necessaries  and  conveniences  of  life.  It 
is  remarkable  that  previously  to  this  period,  all 
the  attempts  at  settling  "  the  Northern  Patent," 
upon  secular  views,  had  proved  abortive.     They 


HANNAH  ADAMS.  63 

were  accompanied  Avith  such  public  discourage- 
ment as  would  probably  have  lost  the  continent  to 
England,  or  have  jjermitted  only  the  sharing  of  it 
with  the  other  European  Powers,  as  in  the  \Yest 
India  Islands,  had  not  the  spirit  of  religion  given 
rise  to  an  effectual  colonization. — History  of  New 
Eurjland. 

THE    HEBREW  NATIOXALITY. 

The  history  of  the  Jcavs  is  remarkable  above 
that  of  all  other  nations  for  the  number  and 
cruelty  of  the  persecutions  they  have  endured. 
They  are  venerable  for  the  antiquity  of  their  ori- 
gin. They  are  discriminated  from  the  rest  of 
mankind  by  their  wonderful  destination,  peculiar 
habits,  and  religious  rites.  Since  the  destruction 
of  Jerusalem,  and  their  universal  dispersion,  we 
contemplate  the  singular  phenomenon  of  a  nation 
subsisting  for  ages  without  its  civil  and  religious 
polity,  and  thus  surviving  its  political  existence. 

But  the  Jews  appear  in  a  far  more  interesting 
light,  when  considered  as  a  standing  monument 
of  the  truth  of  the  Christian  Eeligion;  as  an  an- 
cient Church  of  God,  to  whom  were  committed 
the  Sacred  Oracles;  as  a  people  selected  from  all 
nations  to  make  known  and  pieserve  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  True  God.  To  them  the  Gospel  was 
first  preached,  and  from  them  the  first  Christian 
Church  in  .Jerusalem  was  collected.  To  them  we 
are  indebted  for  the  Scrii^tures  of  the  New  as 
well  as  of  the  Old  Testament.  To  them  were 
given  the  spirit  of  Prophesy,  and  the  power  of 
working  Miracles.  From  them  were  derived  an 
illustrious  train  of  Prophets  and  Ajjostles.  "To 
them  pertaineth  the  adoption  and  the  glory,  the 
service  of  God  and  the  promises;  and  of  them,  as 
concerning  the  flesh,  Christ  came."  .... 

The  preservation  of  this  extraordinary  people 
during  their  calamitous  dispersion  exhibits  the 
faithfulness  of  the  Deity  in  fulfilling  his  gracious 
promise,  that  "when  they  arc  in  the  land  of  their 
enemies,  He  will  not  cast  them  away,  nor  destroy 
them  uttei'ly."  Though  from  the  destruction  of 
Jerusalem  to  the  sixteenth  century,  there  are  few 
countries  in  which  they  have  not  been  successively 


G4  JOHN  ADAMS. 

banished,  recalled,  and  again  expelled;  yet  they 
have  never  been  banished  from  one  country  with- 
out finding  an  asylum  in  another.  .  One  of  the 
great  designs  of  their  being  preserved  and  con- 
tinued a  distinct  people  appears  to  be  that  their 
singular  destiny  might  confirm  the  divine  author- 
ity of  the  Gospel,  which  they  reject;  and  that  they 
might  strengthen  the  faith  of  others  in  those 
sacred  truths,  to  which  they  refuse  to  yield  their 
own  assent. — History  of  the  Jews. 

ADAMS,  John,  second  President  of  the 
United  States,  born  at  Braintree,  Mass.,  Oct. 
2,  1735,  died  at  Quincy,  Mass.,  July  4,  1826. 
He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  1755; 
took  charge  of  a  Grammar  School  at  Worces- 
ter, and  read  law  with  the  only  lawyer  in  the 
town ;  and  in  1758  commenced  practice  in  his 
native  county  of  Suffolk,  of  which  Boston  was 
the  shire  town.  In  1764  he  married  Abigail 
Smith,  a  daughter  of  the  minister  of  the 
neighboring  towai  of  Weymouth.  The  dis- 
putes between  Great  Britain  and  the  Ameri- 
can colonies,  growing  primarily  out  of  the 
Stamp  Act  were  growing  warm,  and  Adams 
took  a  promment  part  on  the  side  of  the  Colo- 
nists, although  he  did  not  concur  in  the  vio- 
lent early  acts  of  their  leaders.  The  dispute 
which  was  allayed  by  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp 
Act,  broke  out  afresh  upon  the  passage  by 
Parliament  of  the  Boston  Port  Bill,  and  the 
destruction  of  the  tea  in  Boston  harbor.  The 
Congress  of  1774  was  a  consequence  of  these 
proceedings,  Adams  being  appointed  one  of 
the  five  delegates  from  Massachusetts  to  this 
Congress,  which  was  convened  at  Philadel- 
phia. He  was  pi-ominent  among  those  who 
w^ere  in  favor  of  resisting  the  aggressions  of 
England  upon  the  rights  of  the  Colonies.  His 
Diary  and  his  numerous  Letters,  now  in- 
cluded in  the  edition  of  his  Life  and  Works, 
prepared  by  his  grandson,  Charles  Francia 


JOHN  ADAMS.  65 

Adams,  throw  much  light  upon  this  seeding 
period  of  the  American  nation. 

The  "Continental  Congress  of  1775,"  al- 
though composed  of  nearly  the  same  mem- 
bers as  the  Congress  of  the  preceding  year, 
found  that  higher  duties  had  devolved  upon 
it.  The  earlier  Congress  had  i-ather  to  delib- 
erate upon  what  ought  to  be  done.  The  Con- 
tinental Congress  was  forced  by  the  course  of 
things  to  decide  what  could  be  done,  and 
what  must  be  done.  Adams  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  any  reconciliation  with  the  Mother 
Country  w-as  hopeless.  Other  members 
thought  otherwise,  and  a  most  respectful  pe- 
tition to  the  king  was  agreed  upon.  No  harm 
could  be  done  by  such  a  petition,  and,  as  it 
turned  out,  no  good  was  done  by  it.  Adams 
and  his  associates  carried  the  main  practical 
point :  The  Colonies  were  to  put  themselves 
into  a  "state  of  defence,"  while  still  assert- 
ing that  "  the  war  on  their  part  was  defen- 
sive only,  and  without  any  intention  to  throw 
off  their  allegiance."  The  meeting  of  the 
Congress  early  in  1776  evinced  clearly  that  a 
separation  between  the  Mother  Country  and 
the  Colonies  was  to  be  effected  by  armed 
force.  The  decisive  point  was  reached  early 
in  May,  when  a  resolution  moved  by  R.  H.  Lee 
was  passed,  averring  that  the  United  States 
"are  and  ought  to  be  free  and  independent." 
Three  committees  were  appointed  to  prepare 
the  necessary  measures.  Adams  was  a  mem- 
ber of  two  of  these  committees:  that  on  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  being  the  most 
significant.  The  Declaration  itself  was  drawn 
up  by  Jefferson,  though  the  original  docu- 
ment was  somewhat  modified  so  as  to  meet 
the  views  of  Adams,  upon  whom  was  de- 
volved the  arduous  task  of  carrying  the  Dec- 
laration thi'ough  the  somewhat  undecided 
Congress. 
5 


66  JOHN  ADAMS. 

For  the  ensuing  twelve  years  John  Adams 
was  one  of  the  most  notable  men  in  America. 
He  was  recognized  as  havmg  "the  clearest 
head  and  the  firmest  heart  of  any  man  in 
Congress."  Early  in  1778  he  was  sent  to 
Europe  to  take  practically  the  lead  in  conduct- 
ing our  foreign  affairs,  first  as  Commissioner 
to  France,  and  subsequently  as  Minister  to 
the  Netherlands  and  to  Great  Britain. 

In  the  mean  time  it  had  become  clear  to  all 
men  that  the  Confederation  of  States  was  not 
a  form  of  Government  suited  to  meet  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  times.  Early  in  1788  Adams, 
at  his  own  urgent  request,  was  recalled  from 
his  mission  abroad.  Upon  his  return  he  was 
re-appointed  as  a  delegate  from  Massachusetts 
to  the  Continental  Congress  which  had  been 
assembled  mainly  to  draw  up  a  new  form  of 
Constitution  for  the  United  States.  This  Con- 
gress had,  however,  already  completed  their 
Avork,  and  Mr.  Adams  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  actual  framing  of  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States.  This  document,  as  originally 
framed,  prescribed  that  each  of  the  Presiden- 
tial Electors— the  number  of  which  was  pro- 
visionally fixed  at  (59 — should  cast  two  ballots 
for  different  persons.  The  person  receiving 
the  highest  vote,  provided  that  it  was  more 
than  half  of  the  whole  number  cast,  was 
thereby  elected  as  President.  The  person  re- 
ceiving the  next  highest  number,  whether  a 
majority  of  the  whole  or  not,  was  to  be  Vice- 
President.  Washington  received  1  vote  from 
each  of  the  Electors,  and  was  thus  unani- 
mously chosen  as  President.  The  remaining 
Electoral  votes  were  given  to  eleven  per- 
sons. Of  these  Mr.  Adams  received  34,  the 
highest  number  cast  for  any  one  person, 
though  lacking  one  of  being  a  majority  of  the 
whole ;  and  he  was  therefore  declared  to  have 
been  chosen  Vice-President,  and  President  of 


JOHN  ADAMS.  61 

the  Senate  ex  officio.  At  the  second  Presiden- 
tial election,  in  1792,  Washington  again  re- 
ceived an  entire  electoral  vote.  Adams  also 
received  a  majority  of  the  remaining  vote, 
and  was  thus  chosen  again  as  Vice-Presi- 
dent. 

Washington  having  positively  declined  to 
hold  the  Presidency  for  a  third  term,  the  elec- 
tion of  1797  took  a  singular  turn.  Three  can- 
didates were  presented  for  the  first  place: 
Adams,  Jefferson,  and  Thomas  Pinckney, 
Jefferson  was  recognized  as  the  leader  of  the 
Anti-Federal  or  ''Republican"  party;  while 
both  Adams  and  Pinckney  were  the  recog- 
nized candidates  of  the  Federal  party  for  the 
first  and  second  places.  But  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  party  wished  that  Pinckney 
should  receive  the  higher  vote,  and  thus  be 
chosen  as  President.  A  large  number  of 
Eastern  Federalist  Electors  withheld  their 
votes  from  Pinckney ;  and  the  general  upshot 
was  that  Adams  had  71  Electoral  votes,  being 
a  majority  of  the  whole,  and  the  highest 
number  for  any.  He  was  thus  chosen  Presi- 
dent, while  Jefferson,  having  69  votes,  be- 
came Vice-President. 

At  the  next  Presidential  election,  in  1800, 
Adams  and  Charles  C.  Pinckney  were  the 
Federal  candidates,  receiving  65  and  64  votes. 
Jefferson  and  Burr  were  the  Republican  can- 
didates, each  receiving  73  votes.  The  choice 
for  President  thus  devolved  upon  the  House 
of  Representatives,  and  this  body  selected 
Jefferson  as  President,  Burr  being  Vice-Presi- 
dent. The  public  life  of  John  Adams  fairly 
ended  with  this  defeat.  He  retired  to  his 
home  in  Bi-aintree,  and  wrote  much  matter, 
some  of  it  of  decided  value.  He  died  on  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  signing  of  the  Dec- 
laration of  Independence.  On  the  same  day 
died  Thomas  Jefferson,   long  the  associate, 


68  JOHN  ADAMS. 

and  subsequently  the  bitter  political  opponent, 
of  Adams.  It  is  pleasant  to  call  to  mind  that 
when  both  of  these  patriots  had  come  to  be 
very  old  men,  they  forgot  the  previous  ani- 
mosities of  their  political  life. 

Most  of  the  ten  large  volumes  which  make 
lip  the  Works  of  John  Adams,  are  of  mere 
temporary  and  local  significance.  But  some 
of  them  contain  passages  deserving  a  place  in 
the  permanent  record  of  human  thought. 
Prominent  among  these  works  is  his  Defence 
of  the  Constitutions  of  Government  of  the 
United  States  of  America,  first  published  in 
London,  in  1787,  while  the  author  was  our 
Minister  in  England.  It  was  written  in  the 
form  of  about  fifty  letters,  and  before  the 
present  Constitution  of  the  United  States  had 
been  framed.  He  s]3eaks  therefore  of  the 
characteristics  of  the  Governments  of  the 
Thirteen  independent  Colonies  or  States 
which  constituted  the  Confederation ;  and  of 
these  he  says : 

THE   GOVERNMENTS   OF   THE   THIRTEEN   STATES. 

It  will  not  be  pretended  that  the  persons  em- 
ployed in  the'f  ormation  of  these  Governments  had 
any  interviews  with  the  gods,  or  were  in  any  de- 
gree under  the  inspiration  of  heaven,  any  more 
than  those  at  work  upon  ships  or  houses,  or  labor- 
ing upon  merchandise  or  agriculture.  It  will  be 
forever  acknowledged  that  these  Governments 
were  contrived  merely  by  tlie  use  of  reason  and 
the  senses.  Neither  tlie  people  nor  their  conven- 
tions, committees  or  sub-committees  considered 
legislation  in  any  other  light  than  ordinary  arts 
and  sciences,  only  as  of  more  importance.  Called 
without  exception,  and  compelled  without  previ- 
ous inclination — though  undoubtedly  at  the  best 
period  of  time,  both  for  England  and  America 
— to  erect  suddenly  new  systems  of  laws  for  their 
future  government,  they  adopted  the  methods  of 
a  wise  architect,  in  erecting  a  new  palace  for  the 
residence  of  his  sovereign.  .      .     Unembarrassed 


JOHN  ADAMS.  69 

by  attachments  to  noble  families,  hereditary  lines 
and  successions,  or  by  considerations  of  royal 
blood,  even  the  pious  mystery  of  holy  oil  had  no 
more  influence  than  that  other  of  holy  water.  And 
their  leaders — or,  more  properly  followers — were 
men  of  too  much  honor  to  attempt  it. 

Thirteen  Governments,  thus  naturally  founded 
on  the  authority  of  the  People  alone — without  a 
pretence  of  miracle  or  mystery,  which  are  destined 
to  spread  over  the  northern  part  of  that  whole 
quarter  of  the  globe — are  a  great  point  gained  in 
favor  of  the  rights  of  mankind.  The  experiment 
is  made,  and  has  completely  succeeded.  It  can 
be  no  longer  called  in  question,  whether  authority 
in  magistrates,  and  obedience  of  citizens,  can  be 
grounded  on  reason,  morality,  and  the  Christian 
i-eligion,  without  the  monkery  of  priests  or  the 
knavei'y  of  politicians. — Preface  to  the  Defence. 

THE  OUTLOOK  IN  1787. 

The  arts  and  sciences,  in  general,  during  the 
three  or  four  last  centuries,  have  had  a  regular 
course  of  progressive  improvement.  The  inven- 
tions in  the  mechanic  arts,  the  discoveries  in  natu- 
ral philosophy,  navigation  and  commerce,  and  the 
advancement  of  civilization  and  humanity,  have 
occasioned  changes  in  the  condition  of  the  world, 
and  the  human  character,  which  would  have  as- 
tonished the  most  refined  nations  of  antiquity.  A 
continuation  of  such  exertions  is  every  day  ren- 
dering Europe  more  and  more  like  one  commu- 
nity, or  single  family.  The  checks  and  balances  of 
republican  Governments  have  been  in  some  de- 
gree adopted  by  the  courts  of  princes.  ...  A 
control  has  been  established  over  ministers  of 
state  and  the  royal  councils,  which  approaches  in 
some  degree  the  spirit  of  republics.  The  press 
has  great  influence,  even  where  it  is  not  expressly 
tolerated;  and  the  public  opinion  must  be  re- 
spected by  a  minister,  or  his  place  becomes  inse- 
cure  And  if  religious  toleration  were  es- 
tablished, and  personal  liberty  a  little  more  pro- 
tected, by  giving  an  absolute  right  to  demand  a 
public  trial  in  a  certain  reasonable  time,  and  the 
States  [Estates]  invested  with  a  few  more  privi- 


70  JOHN  ADAMS. 

lesjes — or,  rather,  restored  to  some  that  have  been 
taken  away — these  Governments  would  be  brought 
to  as  great  a  degi-ee  of  perfection — tliey  would  ap- 
proach as  near  to  the  character  of  governments  of 
Laws  and  not  of  Men,  as  their  nature  will  proba- 
bly admit  of. — Preface  to  the  Defence. 

The  Diary  of  John  Adams,  though  not  kept 
up  unremitingly  during  his  whole  Hfe,  con- 
tains many  interesting  passages.  In  Jan., 
1759,  not  long  after  he  had  begun  the  prac- 
tice of  law,  he  writes : 

EARLY  PLANS   FOE   LIFE. 

What  am  I  doing?  Shall  I  sleep  away  my  whole 
seventy  years?  No,  by  everything  I  swear  1  will 
renounce  this  contemplative,  and  betake  myself 
to  an  active,  roving  life  by  sea  or  land ;  or  else  I 
will  attempt  some  uncommon,  unexpected  enter- 
prise in  law.  Let  me  lay  the  plan,  and  arouse 
spirit  enough  to  push  boldly.  I  swear,  I'll  push 
myself  into  business.  I'll  watch  my  opportunity 
to  speak  in  Court,  and  will  strike  with  surprise; 
surprise  bench,  bar,  jury,  auditors  and  all.  Ac- 
tivity, boldness,  forwardness,  will  draw  attention. 
1  will  not  lean  with  my  elbows  on  the  table  for- 
ever, like  so-and-so;  but  I  will  not  forego  the 
pleasures  of  ranging  the  woods,  climbing  cliffs, 
walking  in  fields,  meadows,  by  rivers,  lakes,  etc., 
and  confine  myself  to  a  chamber  for  nothing.  I'll 
have  some  boon  in  return,  exchange:  Fame,  fort- 
une, or  sometbing 

In  Parson  Wibird's  company  something  is  to 
be   learned   of  human   nature,  human   life,  love, 

courtship,  marriage He  has  his  mind  stuffed 

with  remarks  and  stuffed  with  remarks  and  stories 
of  human  virtues  and  vices,  Avisdom  and  folly, 
etc.  But  his  opinion,  out  of  poetry,  love,  court- 
ship, marriage,  politics,  war,  grace,  decency,  etc., 
is  not  very  valuable.  His  soul  is  lost  in  dronish 
effeminacy.  I'd  rather  be  lost  in  a  whirlwind  of 
activity,  study,  business,  great  and  good  designs 
of  promoting  the  honor,  grandeur,  wealth,  happi- 
ness of  mankind. — Diary  for  1759. 


I 


JOHN  ADAMS.  71 

THE  YEAR    1765. 

This  has  been  the  most  remarkable  year  of  my 
life.  That  enormous  engine,  fabricated  by  the 
British  Parliament  for  battering  down  all  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  America — I  mean  the  Stamp 
Act — has  raised  and  spread  through  the  whole 
continent  a  spirit  which   will  be  recorded  to  our 

honor  with  all  future  generations Such,  and 

so  universal,  has  been  the  resentment  of  the  peo- 
ple tliat  every  man  who  has  dared  to  speak  in  fa- 
vor of  the  stamps,  or  to  soften  the  detestation  in 
which  they  are  held,  has  been  seen  to  sink  into 
universal  contempt  and  ignominy.  The  jjeoijle, 
even  to  the  lowest  ranks,  have  become  more  atten- 
tive to  their  liberties,  more  inquisitive  about 
them,  and  more  determined  to  defend  them  tlian 
they  were  ever  before.  The  crown  officers  have 
everywhei'e  trembled;  and  all  their  little  tools  and 
creatures  have  been  afraid  to  speak,  and  ashamed 
to  be  seen. 

This  spirit,  however,  has  not  been  sufficient  to 
banish  from  persons  in  authority  that  timidity 
which  they  have  discovered  from  the  beginning. 
The  Executive  Courts  have  not  yet  dared  to  pro- 
nounce the  Stamp  Act  void,  nor  to  proceed  to 
business  as  usual,  though  it  should  seem  that  ne- 
cessity alone  would  be  sufficient  to  justify  business 
at  present,  though  the  Act  should  be  allowed  to 
be  obligatory.  The  stamps  are  in  the  castle;  the 
Governor  has  no  authority  to  unpack  the  bales; 
the  Act  has  never  been  proclaimed  nor  read  in  the 
Province;  and  yet  the  probate  office  is  shut,  tlie 
custom-houses  are  shut,  and  all  business  seems  at 

a  stand How  long  we  are  to  remain  in  this 

languid  condition — this  passive  obedience  to  the 
Stamp  Act — is  not  certain. 

But  such  a  pause  cannot  be  lasting and  it 

Is  to  be  expected  that  the  public  offices  will  very 
soon  be  forced  open,  unless  such  favorable  ao^ 
counts  should  be  received  from  England  as  to 
draw  away  the  fear  of  the  great;  or  unless  a 
greater  dread  of  the  multitude  sh(mld  drive  away 
the  fear  of  censure  from  Great  Britain,  It  is  my 
opinion  that  by  this  inactivity  we  discover  coward- 
ice, and  too  much  respect  for  the  Act.     This  rest 


72  JOHN  ADAMS. 

appears  to  be — by  implication  at  least — an  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  authority  of  Parliament  to 
tax  us.  And  if  this  authority  is  once  acknowl- 
edged and  established,  the  ruin  of  America  will 
become  inevitable. — Diary  o/1765. 

The  letters  written  by  Adams  to  his  wife 
are  often  extremely  interesting.  In  them  he 
lays  bare  his  inmost  heart  npon  matters  of 
public  import.  Thus,  late  in  July,  1775,  when 
the  first  Continental  Congress  was  in  session, 
and  the  question  of  revolution  or  no  revolu- 
tion was  becoming  the  important  issue  of  the 
time,  he  writes  of  Franklin  and  some  other 
members  of  that  Congress : 

ADAMS  UPON   FRANKLIN   AND  OTHERS. 

Dr.  Fi-anklin  has  been  very  constant  in  his 
attendance  upon  Congress  from  the  beginning. 
His  conduct  has  been  composed  and  grave,  and, 
in  the  opinion  of  many  gentlemen,  very  reserved. 
He  has  not  assumed  anything,  nor  affected  to 
take  the  lead;  but  has  seemed  to  choose  that 
Congress  should  pursue  their  own  sentiments, 
and  adopt  their  own  plans.  Yet  he  has  not  been 
backward;  has  been  very  usjful  to  us  on  many 
occasions,  and  discovered  a  disposition  entirely 
American.  He  does  not  hesitate  at  our  boldest 
measures,  but  rather  seems  to  think  us  too  ir- 
resolute and  backward.  He  thinks  us  at  present 
in  i-ather  an  odd  state;  neither  at  peace  nor  at 
war;  neither  dependent  nor  independent.  But 
he  thinks  that  we  shall  soon  assume  a  char- 
acter more  decisive.  He  thinks  that  we  have  the 
power  of  preserving  ourselves;  and  that,  even 
if  we  should  be  driven  to  the  disagreeable  neces- 
sity of  assuming  a  total  independency,  and  set  up 
a  separate  State,  we  can  maintain  it. 

The  people  in  England  have  thought  that  the 
opposition  was  wholly  owing  to  Dr.  Franklin; 
and  I  suppose  their  scribblers  will  attribute  the 
proceeding  of  Congress  to  him;  but  there  cannot 
be  a  greater  mistake.  He  has  had  but  little  share 
farther  than  to  co-ojjerate  and  to  assist.    He  is. 


I 


JOHN  ADAMS.  73 

however,  a  great  and  a  good  man.  I  wish  his 
colleagues  from  this  city  [Pliiladelphia]  were  all 
like  him;  particularly  one  [John  Dickinson], 
whose  abilities  and  virtues,  formerly  trumpeted 
so  much  in  America,  have  been  found  wanting. 
There  is  a  young  gentleman  from  Pennsylvania 
whose  name  is  Wilson,  whose  fortitude,  rectitude, 
and  abilities,  too,  greatly  outshine  his  master's, 
Mr.  Biddle,  the  Speaker,  has  been  taken  off  by 
sickness;  Mr.  MiiHin  is  gone  to  the  camp;  Mr. 
Morton  is  ill  too;  so  that  this  Province  has  suf- 
fered by  the  timidity  of  two  overgrown  fortunes. 
The  dread  of  confiscation,  or  caprice — I  know  not 
what — has  influenced  them  too  much.  Yet  they 
were  for  taking  arms,  and  pretended  to  be  very 
valiant. — This  letter  must  be  secret,  dear,  or  at 
least  communicated  with  great  discretion. — Letter, 
July  23,  1775. 

It  was  almost  a  year  longer  before  the  ques- 
tion of  Independence  came  to  a  final  decision 
in  the  Continental  Congress.  On  July  3, 
1776,  Adams  wrote  to  his  wife: 

THE   DECLARATION  OF   INDEPENDENCE. 

Yesterday  the  greatest  question  was  decided 
which  ever  was  debated  in  America;  and  a 
greater,  perhaps,  never  was  or  will  be  debated 
among  men.  A  Eesolution  was  passed,  without 
one  dissenting  Colony,  "  that  these  United  Colo- 
nies are,  and  of  riglit  ought  to  be,  free  and  inde- 
pendent States,  and  as  such  they  have,  and  of 
right  ought  to  have,  full  power  to  make  war, 
conclude  peace,  establish  commerce,  and  do  all 
other  acts  and  things  which  other  states  may 
rightfully  do."  You  will  see  in  a  few  days,  a 
Declaration  setting  forth  the  causes  which  have 
impelled  us  to  this  mighty  revolution,  and  the 
reasons  which  will  justify  it  to  God  and  man.  .  .  . 

When  I  run  through  tlie  whole  period  from  1761 
to  this,  I  am  surprised  at  the  suddenness  as  well 
as  the  greatness  of  this  revolution.  Britain  has 
been  filled  with  folly,  and  America  with  wisdom: 
at  least  this  is  my  judgment.  Time  must  deter- 
mine.     It   is   the   will   of   Heaven    that   the   two 


74  JOHN  ADAMS. 

countries  Ghoiild  be  sundered  forever.  It  may 
be  the  will  of  Heaven  that  Amei'ica  shall  suffer 
calamities   still   more  wasting,  and  distresses  yet 

more  dreadful 

Had  a  Declaration  of  Independency  been  made 
seven  months  ago,  it  would  have  been  attended 
with  many  great  and  glorious  effects.  We  might, 
before  this  hour,  have  formed  alliances  with 
foreign  States.     We  should  have  been  masters  of 

Quebec,  and  been  in  possession  of  Canada 

But  the  delay  of  this  Declaration  to  this  time  has 
many  great  advantages  attending  it.  Tlie  hopes 
of  reconciliation  which  were  fondly  entertained 
by  multitudes  of  honest  and  well-meaning,  though 
weak  and  mistaken  people,  have  been  gradually, 
and  at  last  totally  extinguished.  Time  has  been 
given  for  the  whole  people  maturely  to  consider 
the  great  question  of  Independence  ....  so 
that  the  whole  people,  in  every  Colony  of  the 
Thirteen,  have  now  adopted  it  as  their  own  act. 
This  will  cement  the  union,  and  avoid  those 
heats,  and  perhaps  convulsions,  which  might 
have  been  occasioned  by  such  a  Declaration  six 
months  ago. 

But  the  day  is  past.  The  second  day  of  July, 
1776,  will  1)6  the  most  memorable  epoch  in  the 
history  of  America.  I  am  apt  to  believe  that  it 
I  will  be  celebrated  by  succeeding  generations  as 
1  _the  great  anniversary  festival.  It  ought  to  be 
commemorated  as  the  day  of  deliverance,  by 
^  solemn  acts  of  devotion  to  Cod  Almighty.  It 
ought  to  be  solemnized  with  pomp  and  parade, 
with  shows,  games,  sports,  guns,  bells,  bonfires, 
and  illuminations,  from  one  end  of  this  continent 
to  the  other,  from  this  time  forward  forever.  .  .  . 
I  am  well  aware  of  the  toil  and  blood  and  treasure 
which  it  will  cost  us  to  maintain  this  Declaration 
and  defend  these  States.  Yet  through  all  the 
gloom  I  can  see  the  rays  of  ravishing  light  and 
glory.  I  can  see  that  the  end  is  worth  more  than 
all  the  means;  and  that  posterity  will  triumph  in 
that  day's  transaction,  even  though  we  should 
rue  it — which  I  trust  in  God  we  shall  not. — Letter. 
July  3.  1776. 


JOHN  ADAMS.  75 

CHARACTER  OF   NEW   ENGLANDEKS. 

If  ever  I  get  through  this  scene  of  politics  and 
war,  I  will  spend  the  remainder  of  my  days  in 
endeavoring  to  instruct  my  countrymen  in  the  art 
of  making  the  most  of  their  virtues  and  abilities; 
an  art  which  they  have  hitherto  too  much  neg- 
lected. A  Philosophical  Society  shall  be  estab-  ■ 
lished  at  Boston,   if  I  have  wit  and  address  to    |      .' 

accomplisli  it,  some  time  or  other My  coun-   j 

trymen  want  art  and  address.     They  want  knowl- 
edge  of  the  world.     They  want  the  exterior  and 
accomijlishments  of  gentlemen,  upon  which  the 
world  has  .set  so  high  a  value.     In  solid  abilities 
and  virtues    they  vastly  excel,   in  general,   any 
peojile    on    this    continent.      Our  New   England   ■   r^  j 
people  are  awJcward  and  bashful;  yet  they  arc        ^  (. 
pertT_Qaten.tatious5    and   vain:  a  mixture   which 
excites  ridicule  and  gives  disgust.     They  have 
not  the  faculty  of  showing  themselves  to  the  best    ; 
advantage,  nor  the  aj-t  of  concealing  this  faculty:    ■  - 
an  art  and  faculty  which  some  people  possess  in 
the  highest  degree.     Our  deficiencies   in  this  re- 
spect are  owing  whojiy  to  the   little   intercourse 
we  have  with  strangers,  and  to  our  inexperience 
of    the   world.      These    imperfections    must    be 
remedied7~for  New   England   must   produce   tlie 
heroeSj  theijtatesmen,  the  philosophers,  or  Amer- 
ica will  make  no  great  figure  for  some  time. — 
Letter,  Aug.  3,  1776. 

THE   SRAI.   FOB  THFI   UNITED   STATES. 

Dr.  Franklin  proposes  a  device  for  the  seal: 
Moses  lifting  up  his  wand  and  dividing  the  Eed 
Sea,  and  Pharaoh  in  his  chariot  overwhelmed  with 
the  waters;  this  motto,  ''Rebellion  to  tyrants  is 
obedience  to  God." — Mr.  Jefferson  proposed  the 
children  of  Israel  in  the  wilderness,  led  by  a  cloud 
by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night;  and  on  the 
other  side,  Hengist  and  Horsa.  the  Saxon  chiefs 
from  whom  we  claim  the  honor  of  being  descended, 
and  whose  political  principles  and  form  of  gov- 
ernment we  have  assumed. — I  proposed  the  Choice 
of  Hercules,  as  engraved  in  some  editions  of  Lord 
Shaftesbury's  works:  the  hero  resting  on  his 
club;  Virtue  pointing  to  her  rugged    mountain 


76  JOHN  ADAMS. 

on  one  hand,  and  persuading  him  to  ascend; 
Sloth,  glancing  on  her  flowery  paths  of  pleasure, 
■wantonly  reclining  on  the  ground,  displaying  the 
charms  both  of  her  eloquence  and  person,  to 
seduce  him  into  vice.  But  this  is  too  complicated 
a  group  for  a  seal  or  medal,  and  it  is  not  original. 
—Letter,  Aiuj.  14,  1770. 

MILITARY   DISCIPLINE   AXD   OBEDIENCE. 

There  is  such  a  mixture  of  the  sublime  and  the 
beautiful,  together  with  the  useful,  in  military 
discipline,   that   I   wonder   every  officer  we  have 

is  not  charmed   with   it A   disciplinarian 

has  affixed  to  him  commonly  the  ideas  of  cruelty, 
severity,   tyranny,   etc.;  but  if  I  were  an  officer, 
I  am  convinced  that  I  should  be  the  most  effect- 
ive disciplinarian  in  the   army.     I  am  convinced 
that  there  is  no  other  effective  way  of  indulging 
benevolence,   humanity,   and    the    tender    social 
passions  in  an  army.     There   is  no  other  way  of 
preserving  the  health  and  tli«  spirits  of  the  men. 
There  is  no  other  way  of  making  them  active  and 
skilful  in  war;    no   other  way  of    guarding  an 
army   against   destruction    by   surprise;   and    no 
other   method  of  giving  them  confidence   in   one 
another— of   making   them  stand  by  one  another 
in  the  hour  of   l)attle.     Discipline  in  an  army  is 
like  the  laws   in  civil  society.     There  can  be  no 
liberty  in   a  commonwealth  where   the  laws  are 
not  revered  and  most  sacredly  observed ;  nor  can 
there  be  happiness   or  safety  in  an  army  for  a 
single  hour  where  the  discipline  is  not  observed.— 
Obedience  is  the  only  thing  wanting  now  for  our 
salvation :— obedience  to  the  laws  in  the  States, 
and   obedience   to   officers   in   the  army.— Letter, 
Aug.  24,  1777. 

COST   OF   LIVING   IN    PHILADELPHIA. 

The  business  of  the  country  has  been  in  so 
critical  and  dangerous  a  situation  for  the  last 
twelve  months  that  it  was  necessary  that  Massa- 
chusetts should  have  a  full  representation;  but 
the  expenses  of  living  are  grown  so  enormous 
that  I  believe  it  will  be  necessary  to  reduce  the 
number  of  delegates  to  three,  after  the  campaign 
is  over 


JOHN  ADAMS.  77 

Prices  current:  Four  pounds  a  week  for  board, 
besides  finding  your  own  washing,  shaving,  can- 
dles, liquors,  pipes,  tobacco,  wood,  etc.  Thirty 
shillings  a  week  for  [the  board  of]  a  servant.  (It 
ought  to  be  thirty  sliillings  for  a  gentleman  and 
four  pounds  for  the  servant,  because  he  generally 
eats  twice  as  much,  and  makes  twice  as  much 
trouble. )  Shoes,  five  dollars  a  pair.  Salt,  twenty- 
seven  dollars  a  bushel.  Butter,  ten  shillings  a 
pound.  Punch,  twenty  sliillings  a  bowl.  All  the 
old  women  and  young  children  are  gone  down 
to  the  Jersey  shore  to  make  salt.  Salt-water  is 
boiling  all  round  the  coast,  and  I  hope  it  will 
increase;  for  it  is  nothing  but  heedlessness  and 
shiftlessness  that  prevents  us  from  making  salt 
enough  for  a  supply;  but  necessity  will  bring  us 
to  it.  As  to  sugar,  molasses,  rum,  etc.,  we  must 
leave  them  off.  Whiskey  is  used  here  instead 
of  rum,  and  I  don't  see  but  it  is  just  as  good. 
Of  this  the  wheat  and  rye  countries  can  easily 
distill  enough  for  the  use  of  the  country.  If 
I  could  get  cider,  I  would  be  content. — Letter, 
Aug.  29,  1777. 

HOPES   AND   FORECASTING  S. 

The  question  now  is,  wliether  there  will  be  a 
general  engagement.  I  think  it  is  not  good  policy 
for  us  to  attack  them,  unless  we  can  get  a  favor- 
able advantage  of  tliera  in  the  situation  of  the 
ground,  etc.  I  think  it  would  be  imprudent, 
perhaps,  for  us,  with  our  whole  force,  to  attack 

them   with    all    theirs But   will    not  Mr. 

Howe  be  able  to  compel  us  to  a  general  engage- 
ment ?  Perhaps  he  may,  but  Washington  will 
manoeuvre  it  with  him  a  good  deal  to  avoid  it. 
A  general  engagement,  in  which  Howe  should  be 
defeated,  would  be  ruin  to  him.  If  we  should 
be  defeated,  his  army  would  be  crippled,  and 
perhaps  we  might  suddenly  re-enforce  our  army, 
which  he  could  not.  All  that  he  could  gain  by 
a  victory  would  be  the  possession  of  this  town 
[Philadelphia],  which  would  be  the  worst  posi- 
tion he  could  be  in;  because  it  would  employ 
his  whole  force,  by  sea  and  land,  to  keep  it 
and  the  command  of  the  river. 


78  JOHN  ADAMS. 

Their  principal  dependence  is  not  upon  their 
arms,  I  believe,  so  much  as  upon  the  failure 
of  our  revenue.  They  think  they  have  taken 
such  measures — by  circulating  counterfeit  bills — 
so  to  depreciate  the  currency  tliat  it  cannot  hold 
its  credit  longer  than  this  campaign.  But  they 
are  mistaken.  We  must  disappoint  them  by  re- 
nouncing all  luxuries,  and  by  a  severe  economy. 
General  Washington  sets  a  fine  example.  He  has 
banished  wine  from  his  table,  and  entertains  his 
friends  with  rum-and-water.  This  is  much  to  tlie 
honor  of  his  wisdom,  his  policy,  and  his  patriot- 
ism. And  the  example  must  be  followed  by 
banishing  sugar  and  all  imported  articles  from 
our  families.  If  necessity  should  reduce  us  to 
a  simplicity  of  dress  and  diet  becoming  repub- 
licans, it  would  be  a  happy  and  a  glorious  neces- 
sity  

Washington  has  a  great  body  of  militia  as- 
sembled and  assembling,  in  addition  to  a  grand 
Continental  army.  Whether  he  will  strike  or 
not,  I  can't  say.  He  is  very  prudent,  and  will 
not  unnecessarily  hazard  his  army.  I  should  put 
more  to  risk,  if  I  were  in  his  shoes;  but  perhaps 
he  is  right I  wish  that  Stark  had  the  com- 
mand in  the  Xorthern  Department.  I  am  sick 
of  Fabian  systems  in  all  quarters.  The  officers 
drink:  "A  long  and  moderate  war!"  My  toast 
is:  "A  short  and  violent  war!"  They  would 
call  me  mad,  rash,  etc. ;  but  I  know  better.  I  am 
as  cool  as  any  of  them — and  cooler  too — for  my 
mind  is  not  inflamed  with  fear  nor  anger;  where- 
as I  believe  theirs  are  with  both 

The  General  has  harangued  his  army,  and  pub- 
lished general  orders,  in  order  to  prepare  their 
minds  for  something  great.  Whetlier  he  expects 
to  be  attacked,  or  whether  he  designs  to  offend, 

I  can't  say If  there  should  be  no  general 

battle,  and  the  two  armies  should  lounge  away 
the  remainder  of  the  campaign,  in  silent  in- 
activity, gazing  at  each  other,  Howe's  reputation 
would  be  ruined  in  his  own  country  and  in  all 
Europe,  and  the  dread  of  him  would  cease  in 
all  America.  The  American  mind,  which,  I  think, 
has  more  firmness  now  than  it  ever  had  before, 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.  70 

since  this  war  began,  would  acquire  a  confidence 
and  strengtli  that  all  the  efforts  of  Great  Britain 
afterwards  would  not  be  able  to  relax 

The  moments  are  critical  here.  We  know  not 
but  the  next  will  bring  us  an  account  of  a  general 
engagement  begun;  and  when  once  begun,  we 
know  not  how  it  will  end.  All  that  we  can  do 
is  to  pray  that  we  may  be  victorious;  at  least, 
that  we  may  not  be  vanquished. 

But  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  Heaven  that 
our  army  should  be  defeated,  and  Philadelphia 
fall  into  Mr.  Howe's  hands,  still  America  is  not 
conquered.  America  would  yet  be  possessed  of 
great  resources,  and  capable  of  great  exertions. 
It  may  be  the  design  of  Providence  that  this 
should  be  the  case;  because  it  would  only  lay 
the  foundations  of  American  Independence  deep- 
er, and  cement  them  stronger.  It  would  cure 
Americans  of  their  vicious  and  luxurious  and 
ef  iminate  appetites,  passions,  and  habits. — a 
moi'c  dangerous  army  to  American  liberty  thnn 
Mr.  Howe's. 

However,  without  the  loss  of  Philadelphia,  we 
must  be  brought  to  an  entire  renunciation  of 
foreign  commodities:  at  least  of  AVest  Indian 
produce.  People  are  coming  to  this  resolution 
very  fast  here.  Loaf-sugar  at  four  dollars  a 
I)ound,  wine  at  three  dollars  a  bottle,  etc.,  will 
soon  introduce  economy  in  the  use  of  these 
articles.  This  spirit  of  economy  would  be  more 
terrible  to  Great  Britain  than  anything  else;  and 
it  would  make  us  more  respectable  in  the  eyes 
of  all  Europe.  Instead  of  acrimonious  alterca- 
tions, I  wish  that  my  countrymen  would  agree 
in  this  virtuous  resolution  of  depending  upon 
themselves  alone.  Let  them  make  salt,  and  live 
without  sugar  and  rum. — Ijftters.  Avg.  29.  Sppt.  S, 
1777. 

ADAMS,  John  Quincy,  sixth  President  of 
the  United  States,  eldest  son  of  John  Adanig. 
Avas  born  at  Braintree,  Mass.,  July  11,  17(57, 
died  at  Washington,  Feb.  23.  1848,  Jp  ^777 
he  acoompanied  his  father  on  his  fix^i  Euro- 
pean mission,  and  was  placed  at  a  school  near 


80  JOHX  QUINCy  ADAMS. 

Paris  for  more  than  a  year,  where  he  acquired 
the  French  language.  He  went  to  Europe 
with  his  father  a  second  time  in  1780;  and  in 
1782  he  went  to  Russia  as  Secretary  of  Lega- 
tion to  Mr.  Dana,  who  had  been  made  Minis- 
ter at  St.  Petersburg.  In  1786  he  returned  to 
America,  and  entered  the  junior  class  at  Har- 
vard College;  afterwards  studied  law  and 
commenced  practice  in  Boston  in  1791.  He 
soon  attracted  attention  by  his  papers  on 
public  matters  contributed  to  the  Boston  Cen- 
tinel,  mainly  in  defence  of  the  policy  of  Pres- 
ident Washington,  by  whom,  in  1794,  he  was 
appointed  Minister  to  Holland.  His  father, 
having  become  President  of  the  United  States 
in  1797,  appointed  him  Minister  at  Berlin,  act- 
ing by  the  express  advice  of  Washington,  Avho 
wrote  that  he  consideixd  young  Adams  "  the 
ablest  person  in  the  American  diplomatic  ser- 
vice," and  that  "merited  promotion  ought 
not  to  be  withheld  from  him  merely  because 
he  was  the  President's  son."  Upon  the  acces- 
sion of  Jefferson  to  the  Presidency,  Adams 
was  recalled,  raid  in  1801  he  resumed  the 
practice  of  law  in  Boston.  In  180.3  he  was 
chosen  to  the  United  States  Senate  fvova  Mas- 
sachusetts. He  Avas  elected  by  the  Federal 
party,  Avith  whom  he  continued  to  act  for 
four  years.  This  party  was  now  signally  de- 
feated throughout  the  nation.  Mr.  Adams 
supported  the  war  measures  of  the  Republican 
party,  and  was  not  re-elected  to  the  Senate. 
In  1806  he  was  made  Professor  of  Rhetoric 
and  Belles-lettres  in  Harvard  College. 

Mr.  Madison  became  President  in  1809,  and 
appointed  Adams  as  Minister  to  Russia.  In 
1813  he  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  commis- 
sion for  negotiating  the  Treaty  of  Ghent, 
which  put  an  end  to  the  war  with  Great  Brit- 
ain ;  aijd  he  was  soon  made  resident  Minister 
at  London.     He  returned  to  America  in  1817 


I 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.  81 

to  fill  the  post  of  Secretary  of  State  in  the  first 
administration  of  Mr.  Monroe.  When  Mon- 
roe's second  term  drew  to  a  close,  six  candi- 
dates for  the  Presidency  were  brought  for- 
ward, all  of  them  prominent  in  the  Republican 
party,  and  three  of  them  menabers  of  Monroe's 
Cabinet.  Adams  received  the  support  of  the 
majority  of  the  former  Federalists,  who  had 
now  no  real  existence  as  a  party. 

At  the  election,  held  in  1824,  Jackson  re- 
ceived 99  electoral  votes;  Adams  84;  Craw- 
ford 41 ;  Clay  37.  No  one  having  a  majority, 
the  election  devolved  upon  the  House  of  Rep- 
resentatives. Crawford  received  the  vote  of 
four  States.  Jackson  that  of  seven;  Adams 
receiving  the  vote  of  thirteen  States,  was. 
chosen  as  President.  At  the  next  election,  in 
1828,  he  was  signally  defeated  for  the  Presi- 
dency by  Andrew  Jackson.  In  1831  he  ac- 
cepted the  Anti-Masonic  nomination  for  C'on- 
gress  from  the  Suffolk  district  of  Massachu- 
setts, which  he  continued  to  represent  until 
his  death  seventeen  years  later,  making  him- 
self specially  prominent  in  maintaining  the 
right  of  petition  upon  the  subject  of  slavery, 
which  had  been  virtually  denied  to  the  abo- 
litionists.— In  Nov.,  1846,  while  on  the  point  of 
leaving  Boston  for  Washington,  he  had  a 
shock  of  paralysis,  which  kept  him  from  his 
seat  for  several  months.  He  resumed  his 
•seat  but  rarely  spoke  in  Congress  after  that. 
On  Feb.  21, 1848,  he  had  a  second  stroke  while 
in  the  House,  and  died  two  days  later,  never 
recovei'ing  more  than  partial  consciousness. 

John  Quincy  Adams  was  busy  with  his  pen 
dm-ing  the  greater  part  of  his  life.  His  Jom-^ 
nal,  which  has  been  edited  by  his  son,  Charles 
Francis  Adams,  embodies  a  mass  of  highly 
important  information  in  regard  to  persons 
and  events  of  his  time.  His  Lectures  on 
Rhetoric  and  Oratory,  delivered  during  his 


82  JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

Harvard  Professorship,  are  rather  above  the 
majority  of  treatises  of  this  class.  Of  his 
pubhe  Speeches,  besides  those  pronounced  in 
Congress,  the  most  important  is  The  Jubilee 
of  the  Constitution,  delivered  before  the  New 
York  Historical  Society,  April  30,  1839,  being 
the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  inauguration 
of  Washington  as  first  President  of  the  United 
States. 

SECESSION~AND   NULLIFICATIOJf. 

Recent  events  in  our  history  [i.e.  those  of  1832, 
et  seq.\  to  wliicli  the  rising  generation  of  our  coun- 
try cannot  and  ought  not  to  close  their  eyes,  have 
brought  again  into  discussion  questions  which  at 
the  period  to  which  we  are  now  reverting  [1789] 
were  at  the  deepest  and  most  vital  interest  to  the 
continued  existence  of  the  Union  itself.  The 
question  whether  any  one  State  of  the  Union  had 
the  right  to  secede  from  tlie  Confederacy  at  her 
pleasure,  was  then  practically  solved.  The  ques- 
tion of  the  right  of  the  people  of  any  one  State  to 
nullify  within  her  borders  any  legislative  act  of 
the  General  Government  was  involved  in  that  of 
the  right  of  Secession,  without,  however,  the  most 
obnoxious  feature  of  the  modern  doctrine  of  nul- 
lification and  secession — the  violation  of  the 
plighted  faith  of  the  nullifying  or  seceding  State. 
RJiode  Island  had  not  only  neglected  to  comply 
with  the  requisitions  of  the  Confederation-Con- 
gress to  supply  the  funds  necessary  to  fulfil  the 
public  engagements;  but  she  alone  had  refused  to 
invest  the  Congress  with  powers  indispensable  for 
raising  such  supplies.  She  had  refused  to  join  in 
the  united  effort  to  re- vivify  the  suspended  ani- 
mation of  the  Confederacy;  and  she  still  defied 
the  warning  of  her  sister  States,  that  if  she  perse- 
vered in  this  exercise  of  her  sovereignty  and  inde- 
pendence, they  would  leave  her  alone  in  her  glory, 
and  take  up  their  march  in  united  column. 

North  Carolina,  not  more  remiss  than  her  sister 
States  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  obligations,  .after 
joining  them  in  the  attempt  to  draw  the  bonds  of 
union  closer  together  by  a  new  compact,  still  re- 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.  83 

fused  to  ratify  it.  Rhode  Island  and  North  Car- 
olina still  held  back.  The  Union  and  Washing- 
ton marehed  on  without  them.  Their  right  to  se- 
cede was  not  contested ;  no  unfriendly  step  to  in- 
jure was  taken;  no  irritating  measure  to  provoke 
them  was  proposed.  The  door  was  left  open  for 
them  to  return,  whenever  the  proud  and  wayward 
spirit  of  State  Sovereignty  would  give  way  to  the 
attractions  of  clearer-sighted  self-interest  and  kin- 
dred sympathies;  and  when  within  two  years  they 
did  return,  without  invitation  or  repulsion,  they 
were  received  with  open  arms. 

The  questions  of  secession,  or  of  resistance  un- 
der State  authority,  against  the  execution  of  the 
laws  of  the  Union  within  any  State  can  never 
again  be  presented  under  circumstances  so  favoi'- 
able  to  the  pretensions  of  the  separate  States,  as 
they  were  at  the  organization  of  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States.  At  that  time  Rhode  Island 
and  North  Carolina  might  justly  have  pleaded 
that  their  sister  States  were  bound  to  them  by  a 
compact  into  which  they  had  voluntarily  entered, 
with  stipulations  that  it  should  undergo  no  altera- 
tion but  by  unanimous  consent.  That  the  Consti- 
tution was  a  confederate  Union  founded  upon 
principles  totally  different,  and  to  which  not  only 
they  were  at  liberty  to  refuse  their  assent,  but 
which  all  the  other  States  combined  could  not, 
without  a  breach  of  their  own  faith,  establish 
among  themselves  without  the  free  consent  of  all 
the  partners  to  the  prior  contract;  that  the  Con- 
federation could  not  otheiVise  be  dissolved ;  and 
that,  by  adhering  to  it,  they  were  only  performing 
their  own  engagements  with  good  faith,  and 
claiming  their  own  unquestionable  rights. 

The  justification  of  tlie  people  of  the  eleven 
States  which  had  adopted  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  and  of  that  provision  of  the  Consti- 
tution itself,  which  had  prescribed  that  the  ratifi- 
cation of  nine  States  should  suffice  to  absolve  them 
from  the  bonds  of  the  old  Confederation,  and  to 
est  iblish  the  new  Government,  as  between  them- 
selves^ was  found  in  the  principles  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  The  Confederation  had 
failed  to  answer  the  purposes  for  which  govern- 


84  JOHN  QUIXCY  ADAMS. 

ments  are  instituted  among  men.  Its  powers,  or 
its  imi^otence,  operated  to  the  destruction  of  those 
ends  whicli  it  is  the  object  of  government  to  pro- 
mote. Tlie  People,  therefore — who  had  made  it 
their  own  only  by  their  acquiescence — acting  un- 
der their  responsibility  to  the  Supreme  Ruler  of 
the  Universe,  absolved  themselves  from  the  bonds 
of  the  old  Confederation,  and  bound  themselves  by 

the  new  and  closer  ties  of  the  Constitution 

They  passed  upon  the  old  Confederation  the  same 
sentence  which  they  had  pronounced  in  dissolving 
their  connection  with  the  British  nation;  and  they 
pledged  their  faith  to  each  other  anew  to  a  far 
closer  and  more  intimate  connection.  It  is  ad- 
mitted— it  was  admitted  then — that  the  people  of 
Ehode  Island  and  of  North  Carolina  were  free  to 
reject  the  new  Constitution;  but  not  that  they 
could  justly  claim  the  continuance  of  the  old 
Confederation.  The  law  of  political  necessity — 
expounded  by  the  judgment  of  the  Sovereign  Con- 
stituent People,  responsible  only  to  God — had 
abolished  that.  The  People  of  Rhode  Island  and 
of  North  Carolina  might  dissent  from  the  more 
perfect  Union,  but  they  must  acquiesce  in  the  ne- 
cessity of  the  separation.  Of  that  sepai-ation  they 
soon  felt  the  inconvenience  to  themselves,  and  re- 
joined the  eomi>any  from  which  they  had  strayed. 
The  number  of  primitive  States  has  since  doubled 
by  voluntary  and  earnest  applications  for  admis- 
sion. It  has  often  been  granted  as  a  privilege  and 
a  favor;  sometimes  delayed  beyond  the  time  when 
it  was  justly  due — and  never  declined  by  any  one 
State  entitled  to  demand  it. — The  Jubilee  of  the 
Constitution. 

OUR  KBAL   AND   GERIZIM. 

When  the  children  of  Israel,  after  foi-ty  years  of 
wandering  in  tlie  wilderness,  were  about  to  enter 
upon  tlie  Promised  Land,  their  leader,  Moses,  who 
was  not  ]iermitted  to  cross  the  .Tordan  with  them, 
just  before  his  removal  from  among  them,  com- 
manded that  when  the  Lord  their  God  should  have 
brought  them  into  the  land,  they  should  put  the 
oixrse  upon  Mount  'Ebal  and  the  blessing  upon 
Mount  Gorizim. 


JOHN  gUlNCY  ADAJSLS.  85 

Fellow  citizens!  the  Ark  of  your  Covenant  is  the 
t)eclaration  of  Independence.  Your  Mount  Ebal 
is  the  Confederacy  of  separate  State  Sovereignties; 
and  your  Mount  Gerizim  is  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States.  In  that  scene  of  tremendous  and 
awful  solemnity,  narrated  in  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
there  is  not  a  curse  pronounced  upon  the  people 
upon  Mount  Ebal,  not  a  blessing  promised  them 
upon  Mount  Gerizim,  which  your  posterity  may 
not  suffer  or  enjoy  from  your'and  their  adherence 
to,  or  departure  from  the  principles  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  practically  interwoven  in 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States.  Lay  up 
these  principles  then,  in  your  hearts  and  in  your 
souls;  bind  them  for  signs  upon  your  hands,  that 
they  may  be  as  frontlets  between  your  eyes;  teach 
them  to  your  children — speaking  of  them  when 
sitting  in  your  houses,  when  walking  by  the  way, 
when  lying  down  and  when  rising  up ;  write  them 
upon  the  doorplates  of  your  houses,  and  upon 
your  gates;  cling  to  them  as  to  the  issues  of  life; 
adhere  to  them  as  to  the  cords  of  your  eternal 
salvation!  60  may  your  children's  children,  at 
the  next  return  of  this  day  of  jubilee,  after  a  full 
century  of  experience  under  your  National  Consti- 
tution, celebrate  it  again  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
all  the  blessings  recognized  by  you  in  the  com- 
memoration at  this  day,  and  of  the  blessings  prom- 
ised to  the  children  of  Israel  upon  Mount  Gerizim, 
as  the  reward  of  obedience  to  the  Law  of  God. — 
The  Jubilee  of  the  Constitution. 

John  Quincy  Adams  made  several  trans- 
lations from  French  and  German  authors. 
Among  these  is  a  decidedly  clever  rendering 
of  the  Oberon  of  Wieland.  He  also  wrote  no 
little  poetry.  His  longest  poem,  Dermot  Mac- 
Morrogh,  relates  the  Conquest  of  Ireland,  in 
the  twelfth  century,  by  the  English.  It  com- 
prises four  cantos,  containing  in  all  nearly 
three  hundred  stanzas,  and  is  worthy  of 
higher  appreciation  than  has  been  accorded 
to  it.  The  poem  concludes  with  setting  forth 
the  fate  of  the  traitor  Dermot,  and  the  subju- 
gation of  Ireland : 


86  JOHN  QUIXCY  ADAMS. 

THE   FATE   OF   ERIN. 

And  now  the  priestly  legates  in  their  turn, 
Absolve  the  royal  penitent  from  guilt: 

No  more  the  Holy  Pontiff's  bowels    earn 
For  vengeance,  on  the  blood  of  Becket  spilt: 

Profuse  his  gracious  favor,  in  return 

Confirms  the  deed  on  fraud  and  falsehood  built; 

And  grants  what  Adrian  had  bestowed  before: 

The  right  supreme  to  Erin's  verdant  shore. 

Thus  was  the  shame  of  servitude  her  lot; 

And  has  been  since  from  that  detested  day, 
When  Dermot  all  his  country's  claims  forgot. 

And  basely  barters  all  her  rights  away. 
Oh !  could  the  Muse  be  heard,  his  name  should  rot 

In  fresh,  immortal,  unconsumed  decay. 
And  be  with  Arnold's  name  transmitted  down, 
First  in  the  roll  of  infamous  renown 

He  first  with  daring  and  relentless  hand. 
Had  torn  of  friendship  and  of  love  the  ties; 

Had  rent  of  wedlock's  sacred  vows  the  band, 
And  taken  fraud  and  falsehood  for  allies. 

Expelled  with  justice  from  his  native  land. 
To  Albion's  tyrant  for  revenge  he  Hies; 

Betrays  his  trust,  pays  homage  for  his  throne; 

And  seals  his  country's  ruin  with  liis  own 

And  now  concentrated,  burst  forth  his  rage. 

He  cursed  the  day  on  which  lie  had  been  born; 
For  on  the  record  of  his  life  no  page 

Could  speak  of  comfort  to  his  state  forlorn ; 
No  cordial  drop  of  memory  to  assuage. 

Of  fell  Remorse  the  vital-searching  thoi-n. 
A  burning  fever  seized  on  every  vein, 
And  mortal  madness  fastened  on  his  brain. 

And  to  their  wildered  senses,  Erin's  saints 
Appear  with  lighted  torches  in  their  hands, 

Applying  scorpion  scourges  till  he  faints, 
And  then  reviving  him  with  blazing  brands; 

While  o'er  his  head  a  frowning  Fury  paints 
In  letters  which  he  reads  and  understands: 

"  Expect  no  mercy  from  thy  Maker's  hand! 

Thou  hadst  no  mercv  on  thv  Native  Land!  " 


John  quincy  adams.  87 

And  to  the  sliades  the  indionant  spirit  fled: 
And  thus  was  Erin's  conquest  iirst  achieved; 

Thus  Albion's  monarch  llrst  became  her  head. — 
And  now  her  freedom  shall  be  soon  retrieved. 

For  (mark  the  Muse,  if  rij^htly  she  has  read, 
Let  this  her  voice  prophetic  be  believed), 

Soon,  soon  shall  dawn  the  day — as  dawn  it  must, 

When  Erin's  sceptre  shall  be  Erin's  trust. 

And  here  I  hang  my  harp  upon  the  willow; 

And  will  no  longer  importune  the  Muse, 
Nor  woo  her  nightly  visits  to  my  pillow, 

Nor  more  implore  her  favor  or  abuse. — 
Brave  sons  of  Erin,  o'er  tiie  Atlantic  billow! 

The  harp  is  yours!  will  you  to  hear  refuse? — 
Take,  take  it  back:  yourselves  the  strain  prolong; 
And  give  your  Dermot's  name  to  deathless  song. 

For,  oh !  if  ever  on  the  roll  of  Time 

Since  man  has  on  this  blessed  planet  dwelt, 
A  soul  existed  saturate  with  crime. 

Or  the  deep  curse  of  after  ages  felt, 
Yours  was  his  country,  Erin  was  his  clime; 

Nor  yet  has  justice  with  his  name  been  dealt. 
My  voice,  alas,  is  weak,  and  cannot  sing. 
Touch,  touch  yourselves  the  never-dying  string! 

— From  Bermot  MacMorrogh. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  John  Quincy 
Adams,  which  appeared  under  the  title  of 
Poems  of  Religion  and  Society,  perhaps  the 
best  is  the  jeu  d'esprit,  in  twenty-live  stanzas, 
entitled  -. 

THE  WANTS   OF   MAN. 
I. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below,  nor  wants  that 

little  long." 
'Tis  not  with  me  exactly  so;  but  'tis  so  in  the  song. 
My  wants  are  many,  and  if  told,  would  muster 

many  a  score; 
And  were  each  wish  a  mint  of  gold,  I  still  should 

long  foi'  mort-. 


88  JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

II. 
What  first  I  want  is  daily  bread,  and  canvass- 

baeks  and  wine; 
And  all  the   realms  of  nature  spi'ead  before  me 

when  I  dine. 
Foitr  courses  scarcely  can  provide  my  appetite  to 

quell , 
With  four  choice  cooks  from  France  beside,  to 

dress  my  dinner  well. 

VI. 

I  want  when  .Summei''s  foliage  falls,  and  Autumn 

strips  the  trees, 
A  house  within  the  city  walls,  for  comfort  and  for 

ease. 
But  here,  as  space  is  somewhat  scant,  and  acres 

somewhat  rare. 
My  house  in  town  I  only  want  to  occupy  a  square. 

VII. 

I  want  a  steward,  butler,  cook;  a  coachman, 
footman,  grooms; 

A  lilirary  of  well-boiuid  books,  and  picture-gar- 
nished rooms; 

Correggios,  Magdalen,  and  Night,  the  Matron  of 
the  Chair; 

Guido's  fleet  Coursers  in  their  flight,  and  Claudes 
at  least  a  pair. 

XII. 

I  want — who  does  not  want? — a  wife,  affectionate 

and  fair. 
To  solace  all  the  woes  of  life,  and  all  its  joys  to 

share ; 
Of   temper  sweet,  of   yielding  will,  of  firm    yet 

placid  mind. 
With  all  my  faults  to  love  me  still,  with  sentiment 

refined. 

XIII. 

And  as  Time's  car  incessant  runs,  and  Fortune  fills 

my  store, 
I  want  of  daughters  and  of  sons  from  eight  to 

half  a  score. 
I  want — alas,  can  mortal  dare  such  bliss  on  earth 

to  crave? 
That  all  the  girls  be  chaste  and  fair,  the  boys  all 

wise  and  brave. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.  89 

XVII. 

I  want  a  warm  and  faithful  friend,  to  cheer  the 

adverse  hour; 
Who  ne'er  to  flatter  will  descend,  nor  bend  the 

knee  to  power: 
A  friend  to  chide  me  when  I'm  wrong-,  my  inmost 

soul  to  see. 
And  that  my  friendship  prove  as  strong  for  him  as 

his  to  me ; 

XVIII. 

I  want  a  kind  and  tender  heart,  for  others'  wants 

to  feel; 
A  soul  secure  from  Fortune's   dart,   and   bosom 

armed  with  steel, 
To  bear  divine  chastisement's  rod;  and  mingling 

with  my  plan, 
Submission  to  the  will  of  God,  with  charity  to 

man. 

XXI. 

I  want  the  genius  to  conceive,  the  talents  to  un- 
fold. 

Designs  the  vicious  to  retrieve,  the  virtuous  to  up- 
hold; [soul, 

Inventive   power,  combining  skill,  a  persevering 

Of  human  hearts  to  mould  the  will,  and  reach 
from  pole  to  pole. 

XXIII. 

I  want  the  voice  of  honest  praise  to  follow  me  be- 
hind ; 

And  to  be  thought  in  future  days  the  friend  of 
human  kind; 

That  after  ages,  as  they  rise,  exulting  may  pro- 
claim. 

In  choral  union  to  the  skies,  their  blessings  on  my 
name. 

XXIV. 

These  are  the  wants  of  mortal  man:  I  cannot 
want  them  long. 

For  life  itself  is  but  a  span,  and  earthly  l)liss  a 
song. — 

My  last  great  want — absorbing  all — is,  when  be- 
neath the  sod, 

And  summoned  to  my  final  call,  the  mercy  of  my 
God. 


90  JOSEPH  AUDISON^. 

XXV. 

And  oh!  while  circles  in  my  veins  of  life  the  pui 

pie  stream, 
And   yet  a  fragment   small   remains  of   nature'^ 

transient  dream, 
My  soul,  in  humble  hope  unscared,  forget  not  thou 

to  pray 
That  thus  thy  want  may  be  prepared  to  meet  the 

Judgment  Day. 

TO   A   SUN-DIAL. 

Thou  silent  herald  of  Time's  ceaseless  flight! 

Say,  couldst  thou  speak,  what  warning  voice 
were  thine, 

Shade,  who  canst  only  show  how  others  shine! 
Dark,  sullen  witness  of  resplendent  Light 
In  day's  broad  glare,  and  when  the  noontide  bright 

Of  laughing  P'ortune  sheds  the  ray  divine. 

Thy  ready  favors  cheer  us;  but  decline 
The  clouds  of  morning  and  the  gloom  of  night. 
Yet  are  thy  counsels  faithful,  just  and  wise: 

They  hid  us  seize  the  moments  as  they  pass, 
Snatch  the  retrieveless  sunshine  as  it  flies. 

Nor  lose  one  sand  of  life's  revolving  glass. 
Aspiring  still,  with  energy  sublime. 
By  virtuous  deeds  to  give  Eternity  to  Time. 

ADDISON,  Joseph,  an  English  poet  and 
essayist,  born  at  Milton.  Wiltshire,  May  1, 
1672,  died  at  Holland  House.  Kensington, 
Jxme  17,  1719.  He  was  the  son  of  Rev.  Lance- 
lot Addison,  Dean  of  Lichfield,  wdio  was  an 
aiithor  of  some  distinction  in  his  day.  He 
was  educated  at  Charter  House  School,  Lon- 
don, and  at  Queen's  and  Magdalen  Colleges, 
Oxford,  -where  he  distinguished  himself  by 
his  Latin  verses.  While  quite  a  young  man 
he  secured  the  favor  of  Dry  den  and  other 
men  of  letters,  and  likewise  of  Lords  Halifax 
and  Somers,  thi-ough  whose  influence  he  re- 
ceived a  pension  of  £.300  to  enable  him  to 
travel,  and  especially  to  perfect  himself  in 
the  French  language,  in  order  to  be  prepared 
for    oflScial    employment.      His    continental 


I 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  91 

travels  lasted  from  1699  to  the  close  of  1703, 
when  he  returned  to  England.  King  William 
III.  had  died  in  the  mean  time ;  Addison's 
patrons  had  gone  out  of  power ;  his  pension 
was  stopped,  and  for  some  time  he  was  hard 
pressed  by  pecuniary  difficulties;  but  he  was 
known  to  the  leaders  of  both  parties  as  a  man 
of  genius.  The  great  war  of  the  Spanish 
Succession  had  brought  the  Whigs  and  Tories 
of  England  into  some  sort  of  harmony.  On 
the  13th  of  August,  1704,  was  fought  the  great 
battle  of  Blenheim,  and  the  Ministry  looked 
about  for  some  man  who  could  proj^erly  cele- 
brate the  victory  in  verse.  They  sent  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  to  the  garret 
occupied  by  Addison,  to  engage  his  services; 
offering  him  a  government  commissionership 
worth  £200  a  year,  as  an  earnest  of  still  greater 
favors. 

The  result  of  this  interview  was  The  Cam- 
paign, a  poem  of  some  five  hundred  lines,  in- 
scribed to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  whom  it 
celebrates.  The  poem  became  famous,  and 
laid  the  foundation  for  the  fortunes  of  the 
poet.  Apart  from  its  merits  as  a  poem  for 
the  time.  The  Campaign  ranks  high  among 
the  works  of  its  class.  Its  special  merit  is 
that  it  discards  wholly  all  the  old  fashion  of 
ascribing  a  great  victory  to  the  personal 
prowess  of  its  hero  as  a  man-at-arms.  Addi- 
son was  perhaps  the  first  man  to  recognize  in 
verse  that  a  battle  is  won  by  brains,  not  by 
brawn.  He  reserved  his  praise  for  those 
qualities  which  inade  Marlborough  one  of  the 
greatest  commanders  of  any  age:  energy, 
sagacity  in  planning,  and  firmness  of  mind 
amid  the  confusion,  uproar,  and  slaughter  of 
the  battle  field.  The  conclusion  of  the  poem, 
which  might  stand  for  its  ' '  Argument, " 
reads : 


92  JOSEPH  AUDISOlSr. 

THE    DUKE    OF     MARLBOROUGH. 

Thus  would  I  fain  Britannia's  wars  rehearse, 
In  tlie  smootli  records  of  a  faitliful  verse; 
Tliat,  if  such  numbers  can  o'er  Time  prevail, 
May  tell  posterity  the  wondrous  tale. 
When  Actions  unadorned  are  faint  and  weak, 
CJities  and  Countries  must  be  taught  to  speak;    * 
And  Rivers  from  their  oozy  beds  arise; 
Gods  may  descend  in  factions  from  the  skies, 
Fiction  may  deck  the  truth  with  spurious  rays, 
And  round  the  Hero  cast  a  borrowed  blaze. 
Marlbro's  exploits  appear  divinely  bright. 
And  proudly  shine  in  their  own  native  light; 
Raised  of  themselves  their  genuine  charms  they 

boast, 
And  those  who  paint  them   truest  praise  them 

most. 
— The  Campaign. 

The  most  famous  passage  in  the  poem  is 
the  tw-enty  lines  which  form  the  prelude 
to  the  Battle  of  Blenheim,  crowned  as  it  is  by 
the  three  concluding  couplets  which  compare 
Marlborough  to  an  angel  gtiiding  the  whirl- 
wind. "  The  extraordinary  effect  which  this 
simile  produced,"  sajs  Macaulay,  "when  it 
first  appeared,  and  which  to  the  following 
generation  seemed  inexplicable,  is  doubtless 
to  be  chiefly  attributed  to  a  line  which  most 
readers  now  regard  as  a  feeble  parenthesis : 
'  Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  passed. ' 
Addison  spoke,  not  of  a  storm,  but  of  the 
storm.  The  great  tempest  of  November,  1703, 
the  only  tempest  which  in  our  latitude  has 
equalled  the  cage  of  a  tropical  hurricane,  had 
left  a  dreadful  recollection  in  the  minds  of  all 
men.  No  other  tempest  was  ever  in  this 
country  the  occasion  of  a  parliamentary  ad- 
dress or  of  a  public  fast.  London  and  Bristol 
had  presented  the  appearance  of  cities  just 
sacked,  and  the  prostrate  trunks  of  large  trees, 
and  the  ruins  of  houses,  still  attested,  in  all 
the  southern  counties,  the  fury  of  the  blast." 


I 


JOSEPH  ADDLSON.  03 

MARLUOKOUGH  AT  BLENHEIM. 

But  O,  my  Muse,  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  sin<f  tlie  fuiious  troops  in  battle  joined! 
Methiuks  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous  sound, 
The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound, 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  slcies, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise. — 
'Twas    then    great    Marlbro's    mighty   soul    was 

proved, 
That  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved, 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despaii-, 
Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war; 
In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  surveyed, 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage. 
And  taught  the  dreadful  battle  where  to  rage. — 
So  when  an  Angel  by  Divine  command 
"With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land — 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past — 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast; 
And  pleased  the  Almighty's  orders  to  perform. 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and   directs   the  storm. 
— The  Campaign. 

Addison's  commissionership — apparently  a 
sinecure — placed  him  in  comfortable  circum- 
stances, and  he  amused  himself  in  literary- 
productions.  He  j)ublished  the  Narrative  of 
his  Travels  in  Italy — ^a  country  which  he 
looked  upon  only  through  classical  eyes ;  the 
lively  Opera  of  Rosamond,  which  failed  upon 
the  stage,  owing  to  the  bad  music  which  was 
set  to  it ;  the  Drummer,  a  comedy,  the  trag- 
edy of  Cato,  and  a  large  number  of  pam- 
phlets, and  poems,  none  of  which,  excepting 
two  or  three  Hymns,  are  of  special  account  ex- 
cept as  the  productions  of  one  who  had  gained 
a  name  in  other  departments  of  literature. 
But  while  he  was  thus  amusing  rather  than  oc- 
cupying himself  with  literature  his  political 
prospects  were  growing  brighter  and  brighter. 
The  Whigs  came  into  power;  and  the  leaders 
of  the  party  looked  out  for  Adni!.^nn,  »'honi 


94  JOSEPH  ADDISON". 

everybody  liked.  He  was  made  Under  Secre- 
tary of  State,  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland,  and 
finally  Secretary  of  State.  He  was  also  re- 
turned to  Parliament  in  1708,  and  held  a  seat 
there,  for  one  constituency  or  another,  until 
his  death,  eleven  years  later.  But  he  made 
no  figure  in  the  House  of  Commons,  never 
attempting  but  once  to  make  a  speech.  In- 
deed we  find  no  evidence  in  him  of  any  great 
capacity  for  political  affairs.  And  yet,  saj'S 
Macaulay,  "Addison,  without  high  birth,  and 
with  little  property,  rose  to  a  post  which 
Dukes,  the  heads  of  the  great  Houses  of  Tal- 
bot, Russell,  and  Bentinck,  have  thought  it 
an  honor  to  fill.  Without  opening  his  lips  in 
debate,  he  rose  to  a  post,  the  highest  that 
Chatham  or  Fox  ever  reached:  and  this  he 
did  before  he  had  been  nine  years  in  Parlia- 
ment." 

In  1716,  at  the  age  of  forty-four,  and  three 
years  before  his  death,  he  married  the  dowa- 
ger Countess  of  Warwick,  to  whose  graceless 
son,  Lord  Warwick,  he  had  been  a  kind  of 
Mentor.  This  marriage  was  far  enougli  from 
a  happy  one ;  and  during  its  brief  continu- 
ance Addison  was  never  so  happy  as  when 
he  could  escape  from  the  magnificent  draw- 
ing-room of  his  titled  and  imperious  wife,  and 
have  a  chat  and  a  bottle  of  wine  at  a  London 
tavern  with  some  of  his  old  friends  and  cro- 
nies. He  died  in  perfect  peace.  Among  his 
last  words  were  those  to  his  unworthy  son-in- 
law:  "See,  how  a  Christian  can  die."  His 
public  funeral  was  a  magnificent  one.  His 
remains  were  laid  at  rest  in  the  vaults  of  the 
magnificent  Chapel  of  Henry  VII.  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  He  was  as  good  as  forgotten 
almost  as  soon  as  he  was  dead.  Neither  his 
rich  and  titled  widow,  nor  any  one  of  his 
contemporary  friends,  ever  thought  of  com- 
memorating him  by  even  a  simple  tablet  on 


I 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  95 

the  walls  of  the  Abbey.  Three  generations 
passed  before  the  omission  was  supplied,  al- 
most in  our  own  day,  by  his  bust  erected  in 
the  "Poets'  Corner." 

As  a  poet  or  dramatist  Addison  cannot  be 
placed  high  even  in  the  third  rank  of  Brit- 
ish Authors.  His  tragedy  of  Cato  contains 
some  passages  of  fine  declamation,  the  best  of 
which  is  Cato's  Soliloquy  on  Immortality. 
The  Letter  from  Italy,  addressed  to  Lord 
Halifax,  has  some  noble  passages ;  and  one  or 
two  of  his  Hymns  and  religious  Odes  stand 
among  the  classics  of  our  language.  The 
most  notable  passage  in  his  versified  Ac- 
count of  the  Greatest  English  Poets,  is  that 
upon  the  author  of  the  Faery  Queen : 

rPOX   EDMUND    SPENSER. 

Old  Spenser  next,  warmed  with  poetic  rage, 
In  ancient  tales  amused  a  barbarous  age; 
An  age,  that  yet,  uncultivate  and  rude, 
Where'er  the  poet's  fancy  kd,  pursued 
Through  pathless  fields,  and  unfrequented  floods, 
To  dens  of  dragons  and  endianted  woods. 
But  now  the  mystic  tale,  that  pleased  of  yore, 
Can  claim  an  understanding  age  no  more ; 
The  long-spun  allegories  fulsome  grow, 
While  the  dull  moral  lies  too  plain  below. 
We  view  well  pleased,  at  distance,  all  the  sights— 
Of  arms  and  palfreys,  battles,  fields,  and  fights, 
Of  damsels  in  distress,  and  courteous  kniglits. 
But  wlicn  we  look  too  near,  the  shades  decay. 
And  all  the  pleasing  landscape  fades  away. 
— Account  of  the  Greatest  British  Poets. 

ON    ITALY. 

Now  has  kind  Heaven  adorned  this  happy  land, 
And  scattered  blessiuQ-s  with  a  wasteful  hand! 
But  what  avails  her  luiexliausted  stores. 
Her  blooming  mountains  and  her  sunny  shores, 
Where  all  the  gifts  that  lieaven  and  earth  impart, 
The  smiles  of  Nature  and  the  charms  of  Art, 
While  proud  Oppression  in  her  valleys  reigns. 
And  Tyranny  usurps  her  happy  plains? 


96  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

The  poor  inliabitaut  beholds  iu  vain 
The  reddeniug  orange  and  the  swelling  grain; 
Joyless  he  sees  the  growing  oils  and  wines, 
And  in  the  myrtle's  fragrant  shade  repines; 
Starves  in  the  midst  of  Nature's  bounty  curst 
And  in  the  loaded  vineyard  dies  for  thirst. 
— Letter  from  Italy. 

ODE   ON   THE    CEEATOK. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

And  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Ci'eator's  power  display, 

And  publishes  in  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And,  nightly  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth; 
While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn. 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 
And  spread  the  truth  f  I'om  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball? 
What  though  no  real  voice,  nor  sound, 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? — 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine : 
"  The  Hand  that  made  us  is  Divine." 

THE   DIVINE   CARE. 

I. 

Now  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lordl 

Now  sure  is  their  defence ! 
Eternal  Wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 
II. 
In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote. 

Supported  by  thy  care. 
Through  burning  climes  I  passed  unhurt 

And  breathed  the  tainted  air. 


JUbEl'H  ADUifciON.  97 

XV. 

Tlimk,  O  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes, 
Thou  sawest  the  wide-extended  deep 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

VI. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  O  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free; 
Whilst  in  the  conlidence  of  prayer 

My  soul  took  hold  on  thee. 

VII. 

For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

VIII. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired, 

Obedient  to  thy  will; 
The  sea  that  roared  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

IX. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death. 

Thy  g(jodness  I'll  adoi-e; 
I'll  jiraise  Thee  for  thy  mercies  jjast. 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

X. 

My  life,  if  Thou  preserve  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  l)e: 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

(Shall  join  my  soul  to  Thee. 

But  Addison  ow^es  liis  great  place  in  English 
literature  mainly  to  his  Essays,  and  especially 
to  those  embodied  in  TJie  Spectator,  a  weekly 
periodical,  the  tirst  Number  of  which  ap- 
peared March  1,  1711,  and  the  last  of  the  first 
Series  (No.  555),  Dec.  G,  1712.  Addison,  how- 
ever, had  previously  commenced  writing 
Essays,  especially  in  The  Tattler,  established 
in  1709  by  his  friend  Richard  Steele,  to  which 
he  contributed  about  sixty  short  essays,  all 
of  which  appeared  subsequently  in  his 
"Works."  Among  these  Tattler  essays  arc 
7 


98  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

some  of  more  than  mere  temporary  value, 
showing  the  power  of  keen  obsei*vation,  felic- 
itous description  and  keen  satire,  which  were 
soon  to  be  more  fully  manifested  in  The  Spec 
tator : 

LITEBABY  VEBMIN. 

The  whole  creation  preys  upon  itself;  every 
living  creature  is  inhabited.  A  flea  has  a  thou- 
sand invisible  insects  that  tease  him  as  he  jumps 
from  place  to  place,  and  revenge  our  quarrels 
upon  him.  A  very  ordinary  microscope  shows  us 
that  a  louse  itself  is  a  very  lousy  creature.  A 
whale,  besides  those  seas  and  oceans  in  the  sev- 
eral vessels  of  his  body,  which  are  filled  with 
innumerable  shoals  of  little  animals,  carries  about 
with  it  a  whole  world  of  inhabitants;  insomuch 
that,  if  we  believe  the  calculations  some  have 
made,  there  are  more  living  creatures,  which  are 
too  small  for  the  naked  eye  to  behold,  about  the 
leviathan,  than  there  are  of  visible  creatures  upon 
the  face  of  the  whole  earth.  Thus  every  nobler 
creature  is,  as  it  wore,  the  basis  and  support  of 
multitudes  that  are  his  inferiors. 

This  consideration  very  much  comforts  me, 
when  I  think  on  those  numberless  vermin  that 
feed  upon  this  paper,  and  find  their  sustenance 
out  of  it:  I  mean  the  small  wits  and  scribblers 
that  every  day  turn  a  penny  by  nibbling  at  my 
lucubrations.  This  has  been  so  advantageous  to 
this  little  species  of  writers,  that,  if  they  do  me 
justice,  I  may  expect  to  have  my  statue  erected 
in  Grub  Street,  as  being  a  common  benefactor  to 
that  quarter. 

They  say,  when  a  fox  is  very  much  troubled 
with  fleas,  he  goeth  into  the  next  pool,  with  a 
little  lock  of  wool  in  his  mouth,  and  keeps  his 
body  under  water  till  the  vermin  get  into  it;  after 
which  he  quits  the  wool,  and  diving,  leaves  his 
tormentors  to  shift  for  themselves,  and  get  their 
living  where  they  can.  I  would  have  these  gentle- 
men take  care  that  I  do  not  serve  them  after  the 
same  manner;  for  though  I  have  kept  my  temper 
pretty  well,  it  is  not  impossible  that  I  may  some 
time  or  other  disappear,  and  what  will  then  be- 


JOSEPH  ADDISOX.  '.m 

come  of  them  ?  Should  1  lay  down  my  Paper, 
what  a  famine  would  there  be  among  the  hawk- 
ers, printers,  booksellers,  and  authors!     It  would 

be  like  Dr.  B 's  dropping  his  cloak,  with  the 

whole  congregation  hanging  upon  the  skirts  of  it. 

To  enumerate  some  of  these  doughty  antago- 
nists: I  was  threatened  to  be  answered  weekly  by 
the  Tit  for  Tat  ;  I  was  undermined  by  the  Whis- 
perer, haunted  by  Tom  Browii''s  Gliost,  scolded  at 
by  a  Female  Tattler,  and  slandered  by  another  of 
the  same  character,  under  the  title  of  Atalantis. 
I  have  been  annotated,  re-tattled,  examined,  and 
condoled.  But  it  being  my  maxim,  "Never  to 
speak  ill  of  the  dead,"  I  shall  let  these  authors 
rest  in  peace;  and  take  great  pleasure  in  thinking 
that  I  have  sometimes  been  the  means  of  their 
getting  a  belly-full.  When  I  see  myseK  thus  sur- 
rounded by  such  formidable  enemies,  I  often  tliiuk 
of  the  Knight  of  the  Eed  Cross,  in  Spenser's  Den 
of  Error,  who,  after  he  has  cut  off  the  dragon's 
head,  and  left  it  wallowing  in  a  flood  of  ink,  sees 
a  thousand  monstrous  reptiles  making  their  mon- 
strous attempts  upon  him — one  with  many  heads 
another  with  none,  and  all  of  them  without  eyes. 

If  ever  I  should  want  such  a  fry  of  little  Authors 
to  attend  me,  1  shall  think  my  Paper  in  a  very 
decaying  condition.  They  are  like  ivy  about  an 
oak,  which  adorns  the  tree  at  the  same  time  that 
it  eats  into  it;  or  like  a  great  man's  equipage, 
that  do  honor  to  the  person  on  whom  they  feed. 
For  my  part,  when  I  see  myself  thus  attacked,  I 
do  not  consider  ray  antagonists  as  malicious  but 
hungry;  and  therefore  am  resolved  never  to  take 
any  notice  of  them. 

As  to  those  who  detract  from  my  labors  without 
being  prompted  to  it  by  an  empty  stomacli— in 
return  for  their  censures,  I  shall  take  pains  to  ex- 
cel, and  never  fail  to  persuade  myself  that  their 
malice  is  nothing  but  their  envy  or  ignorance. 
Give  me  leave  to  conclude,  like  an  Old  Man  and  a 
Moralist,  with  a  Fable. 

The  Owls,  Bats,  and  several  other  Birds  of  Night, 
were  one  day  together  in  a  thick  shade,  where 
they  abused  their  neighbors  in  a  very  sociable 
manner.     This  Satvr   at  last  fell  upon   the   Sun. 


100  JOSEPH  ADDISOX. 

whom  they  all  agreed  to  be  very  troublesome, 
impertinent,  and  inquisitive.  Upon  which  the 
Sun,  who  overheard  them,  spoke  to  them  after 
this  mannei-:  "Gentlemen,  I  wonder  how  you 
dare  abuse  one  that  you  know  could  in  an  instant 
scorch  you  up,  and  burn  every  mother's  son  of  you. 
But  the  only  answer  I  shall  give  you,  or  the  re- 
venge I  shall  take  of  you,  is  to  shine  on.^'' — The 
Tattler,  No.  229,  Sept.  26,  1710. 

HINTS   FOR   CHARLATANS. 

The  very  foundation  of  Poetry  is  Good  Sense,  if 
we  may  allow  Horace  to  be  a  judge  of  the  art: 
"  Scribendi  recte  recte  sajyere  est,  et  prlncijilum,  et 
/o?i.s."  And  if  so,  we  have  reason  to  believe  that 
the  same  man  who  writes  well  can  prescribe  well, 
if  he  has  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  both. 
Besides,  when  we  see  a  man  making  professions 
of  two  different  sciences,  it  is  natural  for  us  to 
believe  that  he  is  no  pretender  in  that  which  we 
are  no  judges  of,  when  we  tind  him  skilful  in  that 
which  wc  understand.  Ordinary  Quacks  and 
Charlatans  are  thoroughly  sensible  how  necessary 
it  is  to  support  themselves  by  these  collateral 
assistances;  and  therefore  always  lay  their  claim 
to  some  supernumerary  accomplishments  which 
are  wholly  foreign  to  their  profession. 

About  twenty  years  ago  it  was  impossible  to 
walk  the  streets  without  having  an  advertise- 
mont  thrust  into  your  hand  of  a  Doctor  •'  who  ivas 
arrived  at  the  Knoicledye  of  the  Green  and  Bed 
T>ragon,  and  had  discovered  the  Female  Fern  Seed.-' 
Xobody  ever  knew  what  this  meant,  but  the  Eed 
and  Green  Dragon  so  amused  the  peoj^le,  that  the 
Doctor  lived  very  comfortably  upon  them.  About 
the  same  time  there  was  pasted  a  very  hard  word 
upon  every  corner  of  the  streets.  This,  to  the 
best  of  my  recollection,  was  "  Tetkachyma 
GOGOX,"  which  drew  great  shoals  of  spectators 
about  it,  who  read  the  Bill  that  it  intioduced  with 
unspeakable  curiosity,  and  when  they  were  sick 
would  have  nobody  but  this  Learned  Man  ^or  their 
physician. 

I  once  received  an  advertisement  of  one  "  who 
had  studied   Thirti/    Years   liu  ('andle-lir/ht   for  '•'■'e 


JO.SEPII  ADDISON.  101 

Good  of  his  Countrymen/'  He  mioht  have  studied 
twice  as  long  by  daylight,  and  never  have  been 
taken  notice  of.  But  Elucubrations  cannot  be 
overvalued.  There  are  some  who  have  gained 
themselves  great  reputation  for  physic  by  their 
birth,  as  "  the  Seventh  Son  of  a  Seventh  Son,''  and 
others  by  not  being  born  at  all,  as  "  the  Unborn 
Doctor,''  who,  I  hear,  is  lately  gone  out  of  the  way 
of  his  patients,  having  died  wortli  five  hundred 
pounds  per  annum,  though  he  was  not  born  to  a 
halfpenny. 

My  ingenious  friend,  Doctor  Saft'old,  succeeded 
my  old  contemporary,  Doctor  Lilly,  in  the  studies 
both  of  Physic  and  Astrology,  to  which  he  added 
that  of  Poetry,  as  was  to  be  seen  both  upon  the 
sign  where  he  lived,  and  in  the  Bills  which  he  dis- 
tributed. He  was  succeeded  by  Doctor  Case,  who 
erased  the  verses  of  his  predecessor  out  of  the 
sign-post,  and  substituted  two  of  his  own,  which 
were  as  follows : 

"  Within  this  Place 
Lives  Doctor  Case." 

He  is  said  to  have  got  more  by  this  distich  than 
Mr.  Dryden  did  by  all  his  Works. 

There  would  be  no  end  of  enumerating  tlie  sev- 
eral imaginary  perfections  and  unaccountable 
ways  by  whicli  this  tribe  of  men  ensnare  the  minds 
of  the  vulgar,  and  gain  crowds  of  admirers.  I 
have  seen  the  whole  front  of  a  mountebank's 
stage,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  faced  with  Pa- 
tents, Certificates,  Medals,  and  Great  Seals,  by 
which  the  several  Princes  of  Europe  have  testified 
their  particular  respect  and  esteem  for  the  Doctor. 
Every  great  man  with  a  sounding  title  has  been 
his  patient.  I  believe  I  have  seen  twenty  mounte- 
banks who  have  given  physic  to  the  Czar  of  Mus- 
covy. The  great  Duke  of  Tuscany  escapes  no 
better.  The  Elector  of  Brandenburg  was  likewise 
a  very  good  patient.  This  great  condescension  of 
the  Doctor  draws  upon  him  much  good-will  from 
his  audience,  and  it  is  ten  to  one.  but  if  any  of 
them  be  troubled  with  an  aching  tooth,  his  ambi- 
tion will  prompt  him  to  get  it  drawn  by  a  person 
who  has  had  so  many  Princes.  Kings,  and  Emperors 
under  his  hnnds. 


102  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

I  must  not  leave  this  subject  without  observing 
that,  as  Physicians  are  apt  to  deal  in  Poetry, 
Ajiothecaries  endeavor  to  recommend  themselves 
by  Oratory,  and  are  therefore  witliout  controversy 
the  most  eloquent  persons  in  the  whole  British 
Nation.  I  would  not  willingly  discourage  any  of 
the  Arts — especially  that  of  which  I  am  an  hum- 
ble Professor;  but  I  must  confess,  for  the  good  of 
my  native  Countrj',  I  could  wish  there  might  be  a 
suspension  of  Physic  for  some  years,  that  our 
Kingdom,  which  has  been  so  much  exhausted  by 
wars,  might  have  leave  to  recruit  itself.  As  for 
myself,  the  only  physic  which  has  brought  me 
safe  to  almost  the  age  of  man,  and  which  I  pre- 
scribe to  all  my  friends,  is  Abstinence.  This  is 
certainly  the  best  physic  for  prevention,  and  very 
often  the  most  effectual  against  the  present  dis- 
temper.    In  short,  my  recipe  is;  Take  Nothing. 

Were  the  Body  Politic  to  be  physicked  like  par- 
ticular persons,  I  should  venture  to  prescribe  for 
it  in  the  same  manner.  I  remember  when  our 
whole  island  was  shaken  by  an  earthquake  some 
years  ago,  there  was  an  impudent  mountebank 
who  sold  Pills  which  (as  he  told  the  country  peo- 
ple), were  "very  good  ag.ainst  an  earthquake." 
It  may  perhaps  be  thought  as  absurd  to  prescribe 
a  diet  for  the  allaying  popular  commotions  and 
national  ferments.  But  I  am  verily  persuaded 
that  if  in  such  a  case  a  whole  people  were  to  en- 
ter into  a  course  of  Abstinence,  and  eat  nothing 
but  water-gi-uel  for  a  fortnight,  it  would  abate 
the  rage  and  animosity  of  parties,  and  not  a  little 
contribute  to  the  cure  of  a  distracted  nation. 
Such  a  fast  would  have  a  natural  tendency  to  the 
procuring  of  those  ends  for  which  a  fast  is  usually 
proclaimed.  If  any  man  has  a  mind  to  enter  on 
such  a  voluntary  abstinence,  it  might  not  be  im- 
proper to  give  him  the  caution  of  Pythagoras  in 
particular:  Ahstine  a  FabiH — "  Abstain  from 
Beans."  That  is,  say  the  interpreters,  "Meddle 
not  with  Elections  " — Beans  having  been  made 
use  of  by  the  voters  among  the  Athenians  in  the 
choice  of  magistrates. — Tattler,  No.  240,  Oct.  21, 
1710. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  103 

Most  of  Addison's  contributions  to  the 
Tattler  are  humorous  in  their  form,  aiming 
to  satirize  the  follies  of  the  time.  His  last 
paper,  Avhich  appeared  in  one  of  the  latest 
issues  of  the  Tattler,  is  of  a  wholly  serious 
character,  being  introductory  to  the  timely 
re-printing  of  the  famous  "  Prayer  or  Song  of 
Praise  made  by  My  Lord  Bacon,  Chancellor 
of  England." 

SPECIAL  PERIODS   OF   DEVOTION. 

I  have  heard  that  it  is  a  rule  among  tlie  conven- 
tuals of  several  Orders  in  tlie  Eoniish  Church  to 
shut  themselves  up  at  a  eel-tain  time  of  tlie  year, 
not  only  from  the  world  in  general,  but  from  the 
members  of  their  own  fraternity,  and  to  jmss 
away  several  days  by  themselves  in  settling  ac- 
counts between  their  Maker  and  their  own  souls, 
in  cancelling  unrepented  crimes,  and  renewing 
their  contracts  of  obedience  for  tlie  future.  Such 
stated  times  for  particular  Acts  of  Devotion,  or 
the  exercise  of  certain  religious  duties,  have  been 
enjoined  in  all  civil  governments,  whatever  Deity 
they  worshipped,  or  whatever  Religion  they  pro- 
fessed. 

That  which  may  be  done  at  all  times  is  often 
totally  neglected  or  forgotten,  unless  fixed  and 
determined  to  some  time  more  than  another;  and 
therefore,  though  several  duties  may  be  suitable 
to  every  day  of  our  lives,  they  are  more  likely  to 
be  performed  if  some  days  are  more  particularly 
set  apart  for  the  practice  of  tliem.  Our  Church 
has  accordingly  instituted  several  Seasons  of  De- 
votion, when  time,  custom,  prescription,  and  (if  I 
may  so  say)  the  Fashion  itself,  call  upon  a  man  to 
be  attentive  to  the  great  end  of  his  being. 

I  have  hinted,  in  some  former  papers,  that  the 
greatest  and  wisest  of  men  in  all  ages  and  coun- 
tries— particularly  in  Rome  and  Greece — were  re- 
nowned for  tlieir  piety  and  virtue.  It  is  now  my 
intention  to  show  liow  those  in  our  own  nation 
that  bave  l)een  uiuiucstionably  the  most  eminent 
for  learning  and  knowledge  were  likewise  tbe 
most  eminent  for  their  adberence  to  tlie  religion 


104  JOSEl'lI  ADDISON. 

of  their  country.  1  might  pruduce  very  shining 
examples  from  among  the  clergy;  but  because 
Priestcraft  is  the  common  cry  of  every  cavilling 
empty  scribbler,  I  shall  show  tliat  all  the  laymen 
who  have  exerted  a  more  than  ordinary  genius  in 
their  writings,  and  were  the  glory  of  their  times, 
were  men  whose  hopes  were  tilled  with  Immortal- 
ity and  the  prospect  of  future  rewards;  and  men 
who  lived  in  dutiful  submission  to  all  the  doc- 
trines of  Revealed  Religion. 

I  shall  in  this  paper  only  instance  Sir  Francis 
Bacon,  a  man  who  for  the  greatness  of  genius, 
and  the  compass  of  knowledge,  did  honor  to  his 
age  and  country;  I  could  almost  say  to  human 
nature  itself.  He  possessed  at  once  all  those 
extraordinary  talents  which  were  divided 
amongst  the  greatest  authors  of  antiquity.  He 
had  the  sound,  distinct,  comprehensive  knowl- 
edge of  Aristotle,  with  all  the  beautiful  lights, 
gi'aces,  and  embellishments  of  Cicero.  One  does 
not  know  which  to  admire  most  in  his  writings, 
tlie  strength  of  Reason,  force  of  Style,  or  bright- 
ness of  Imagination 

I  was  infinitely  pleased  to  find  among  the  works 
of  this  extraordinary  man  a  Prayer  of  his  own 
composing  which,  for  the  elevation  of  thought  and 
greatness  of  expression,  seems  rather  the  devotion 
of  an  angel  than  of  a  man.  His  principal  fault 
seems  to  have  been  the  excess  of  that  virtue  which 
covers  a  multitude  of  faults.  This  betrayed  him 
to  so  great  an  indulgence  towards  his  servants, 
who  made  a  corrupt  use  of  it,  which  stripped  him 
of  all  those  riches  and  honors  which  a  long  series 
of  merits  had  heaped  upon  him.  But  in  this 
Prayer,  at  the  time  we  find  him  prostrating  him- 
self before  the  mercy-seat,  and  humbled  under 
the  afflictions  which  at  that  time  lay  heavy  upon 
him,  we  see  him  supported  by  the  sense  of  his  in- 
tegrity, his  zeal,  and  his  devotion,  and  his  love  to 
mankind ;  which  gave  him  a  much  higher  figure  in 
the  minds  of  thinking  men,  than  the  greatness 
had  done  from  which  he  had  fallen.  I  shall  beg 
leave  to  write  down  the  Prayer  itself,  with  the 
title  to  it,  as  it  was  found  among  his  Lordship's 
p.apers,  written  in  his  own  hand;  not  being  able 


i 


.lOSEFil  ADDISOX.  IC. 

to  furnish  my  reader  with  an  entertainment  more 
suitable  to  this  solemn  time.  [Here  follows 
Bacon's  "Prayer  or  Psalm."] — The  Tattler,  No. 
267,  Dec.  23,  1710. 

But  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  Essays, 
upon  which  Addison's  fame  rests,  were  con- 
tributed to  the  Spectator.  This  periodical 
was  planned  by  Addison  in  conjunction  with 
Richard  Steele,  and  was  to  consist  of  papers 
supposed  to  be  written  by  a  club  w^ho  had 
united  for  that  puriDose.  The  first  Number 
appeared  on  Thursday,  March  1,  1711,  and 
was  continued  daily — Sundays  excepted — vm- 
til  the  close  of  1712 ;  the  last  paper  but  one 
furnished  by  Addison  (No.  540,  Nov.  29),  con- 
tained an  announcement  by  the  imaginary 
"Spectator"  that  "  The  Club,  of  which  I  am  a 
member,  being  entirely  dispersed,  I  shaU  con- 
sult my  reader  next  week,  upon  a  project  re- 
lating to  the  institution  of  a  new  one."  The 
first  Number  of  the  new  Spectator  appeared 
in  June,  1714,  and  was  issued  three  times  a 
week  for  about  thi-ee  months.  Something 
more  than  half  the  papers  were  furnished  by 
Addison.  But  the  new  Spectator  failed  to 
supply  the  place  of  the  old  one.  There  is  no 
one  essay  in  it  which  has  fixed  itself  in  the 
public  mind.  In  fact,  it  must  be  pronounced 
dull.  The  best  of  these  papers  is  the  follow- 
ing, which  has  in  it  much  of  the  old  vein : 

THE   DISTRIBUTION   OF   HUMAN   CALAMITIES. 

It  is  a  celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all 
the  misfortunes  of  mankind  were  cast  into  a  pub- 
lic stock,  in  order  to  be  equally  distributed  among 
the  whole  species,  those  who  now  think  them- 
selves the  most  unhappy  would  prefer  the  share 
they  are  already  possessed  of,  before  that  which 
would  fall  to  them  by  such  a  division.  Horace 
has  carried  this  thought  a  great  deal  further,  and 
implies  that  the  hardsliips  or  misfortunes  we  lie 
under  are  more  easy  to  us  than  those  of  any  other 


106  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

person  would  l)e,  in  case  we  could  change  condi- 
tions with  him. 

1  was  ruminating  upon  these  two  remarks,  and 
seated  in  my  elbow  chair,  I  insensibly  fell  asleep; 
when,  on  a  sudden,  methought  there  was  a  proc- 
lamation made  by  Jupiter  that  every  mortal  should 
bring  in  his  griefs  and  calamities,  and  throw 
them  together  in  a  heap.  There  was  a  large  plain 
appointed  for  the  purpose.  I  took  my  stand  in 
the  centre  of  it,  and  saw  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  the  whole  human  species  marching  up 
one  after  another,  and  throwing  down  their  sev- 
eral loads,  which  immediately  grew  up  into  a  pro- 
digious mountain  that  seemed  to  rise  above  the 
clouds.  There  was  a  certain  lady  of  a  thin  airy 
shape,  who  was  very  active  in  this  solemnity. 
She  carried  a  magnifying-glass  in  one  of  her 
hands.  There  was  something  wild  and  distracted 
in  her  looks.  Her  name  was  Fancy.  She  led  up 
every  mortal  to  the  appointed  place,  after  having 
very  officiously  aided  him  in  making  up  his  pack, 
and  laying  it  upon  his  shoulders.  My  heart 
melted  within  me  to  see  my  fellow-creatures 
groaning  under  their  respective  burdens,  and  to 
consider  that  prodigious  bulk  of  human  calamities 
which  lay  before  me. 

There  were,  however,  several  persons  who  gave 
me  great  diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I  observed 
one  bring  in  a  fardel  very  carefully  concealed  un- 
der an  old  embroidered  cloak,  which,  upon  his 
throwing  it  into  a  heap,  I  discovered  to  be  Pov- 
erty. Another,  after  a  great  deal  of  puffing,  threw 
down  his  luggage,  which,  upon  examining,  I  found 
to  be  his  wife.  There  were  multitudes  of  lovers, 
saddled  with  very  whimsical  burdens,  composed 
of  darts  and  flames;  but  Miiat  was  very  odd, 
though  they  sighed  as  if  their  hearts  would  break 
under  these  bundles  of  calamities,  they  could  not 
persuade  themselves  to  cast  them  into  the  heap, 
when  they  came  up  to  it:  but  after  a  few  faint  ef- 
forts shook  their  heads,  and  marched  away,  as 
heavy  loaden  as  they  came. 

I  saw  multitudes  of  old  women  throw  down 
their  wrinkles;  and  several  young  ones  who 
strip])ed  themselves  of  a  tawny  skin.    There  were 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  107 

very  great  lieaps  of  red  noses,  large  lips,  and  rusty 
teeth.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  was  surprised  to  see 
the  greatest  part  of  the  mountain  made  up  of 
bodily  deformities.  There  were  likewise  distem- 
pers of  all  sorts,  though  I  could  not  but  observe 
that  there  were  many  more  imaginary  than  real. 
One  little  packet  I  could  not  but  take  notice  of, 
which  was  a  cumplication  of  all  the  diseases  inci- 
dent to  human  nature,  and  was  in  the  hands  of  a 
great  many  fine  people:  this  was  called  the 
Spleen. 

But  what  most  surprised  me  was  a  remark  I 
made,  that  there  was  not  a  single  Vice  or  Folly 
thrown  into  the  whole  heap;  at  which  I  was  very 
much  astonished,  having  concluded  within  my- 
self that  every  one  would  take  this  opportunity  of 
getting  rid  of  his  passions,  prejudices,  and  frail- 
ties. I  took  notice  in  particular  of  a  very  profli- 
gate fellow,  who,  I  did  not  question,  came  loaden 
with  his  Crimes;  but  upon  searcliing  into  his  bun- 
dle, I  found  that  instead  of  throwing  his  guilt  from 
him,  he  had  only  laid  down  his  Memory.  He  was 
followed  by  another  worthless  rogue,  who  flung 
away  his  Modesty  instead  of  his  Ignorance 

I  saw,  with  unspeakable  pleasure,  the  whole 
species  thus  delivered  from  its  sorrow ;  though,  at 
the  same  time,  there  was  scarce  a  mortal  in  this 
vast  multitude  who  did  not  discover  in  this  vast 
heap  what  he  thought  pleasures  and  blessings  of 
life;  and  wondered  how  the  owners  of  them  ever 
came  to  look  upon  them  as  burthens  and  griev- 
ances. As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this 
confusion  of  miseries — this  chaos  of  calamity- 
Jupiter  issued  out  a  second  proclamation,  that 
every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange  his  af- 
fliction, and  to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any 
such  other  bundle  as  should  be  delivered  to  him. 

Upon  this  FA>fCY  began  again  to  bestir  herself, 
and  parcelling  out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible 
activity,  recommended  to  every  one  his  particular 
packet.  The  hurry  and  confusion  at  this  time 
was  not  to  be  expressed.  A  venerable  gray- 
headed  man,  who  had  laid  down  the  Colic,  and 
who  I  found  wanted  an  Heir  to  his  estate,  snatched 
up    an    undutiful    son    that    had    been    thrown 


108  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

into  the  heap  by  his  angry  father.  Tlie  grace- 
less youth,  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
had  the  old  gentleman  by  the  beard,  and  had  like 
to  have  knocked  his  brains  out;  so  that  meeting 
the  true  father,  who  came  towards  him  in  a  fit  of 
the  gripes,  he  begged  him  to  take  his  son  again, 
and  give  him  back  his  colic;  l)ut  they  were  inca- 
pable either  of  them  to  recede  from  the  choice 
they  had  made.  A  poor  galley-slave  who  had 
thrown  down  his  chains,  took  up  the  Gout  in  its 
stead;  but  made  such  wry  faces  that  one  might 
easily  perceive  he  was  no  great  gainer  by  the  bar- 
gain. 

It  was  pleasant  euciugh  to  see  the  several  ex- 
changes that  were  made:  Sickness  against  Pov- 
erty, Hunger  against  Want  of  Appetite,  and  Care 
against  Pain.  The  female  world  were  very  busy 
among  themselves  bartering  for  features.  One 
was  trucking  a  lock  of  gray  hair  for  a  carbuncle ; 
another  was  making  over  a  short  waist  for  a  pair 
of  round  shoulders ;  and  a  third  was  cheapening  a 
bad  face  for  a  lost  reputation.  But  on  all  these 
occasions  there  was  not  one  of  them  wiio  did  not 
think  the  new  blemish  as  soon  as  she  had  got  it 
into  her  possession,  much  more  disagreeable  than 
the  old  one.  I  made  the  same  observation  on 
every  other  misfortune  or  calamity  which  every 
one  in  the  assembly  brought  upon  himself  in  lieu 
of  what  he  had  parted  with 

The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two 
sexes,  who  made  a  most  piteous  sight  as  they 
wandered  up  and  down  under  tlie  pressure  of 
their  several  burthens.  The  whole  plain  was  filled 
with  murmurs,  and  complaints,  groans  and  lam- 
entations. Jupiter  at  length,  taking  comi^assion 
on  the  poor  mortals,  ordered  them  a  second  time 
to  lay  down  their  loads,  with  a  design  to  give 
every  one  his  own  again.  They  discharged  them- 
selves with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  after  whicl) 
the  Phantom  who  had  led  them  into  such  gross 
delusion  was  commanded  to  disappear.  There 
was  sent  in  her  stead  a  goddess  of  a  quite  differ- 
ent figure:  her  name  was  Patience.  She  had  no 
sooner  placed  herself  by  this  mount  of  sorrows, 
but — what  1  thought  very  remarkable,  the  whole 


JOSEPH  ADDlvSOX.  109 

heap  sank  to  such  a  degree  that  it  did  not  appear 
a  third  part  so  big  as  it  Avas  before.  She  after- 
wards returned  every  man  his  own  proper  calam- 
ity, and  teaching  him  how  to  bear  it  in  the  most 
commodious  manner,  he  marched  off  with  it  con- 
tentedly: being  very  well  pleased  that  he  had  not 
been  left  to  his  own  choice  as  to  the  kind  of  evil 
which  fell  to  his  lot— The  Spectator,  No.ooS,  June 
23,  1714. 

Addison  in  1713  contributed  about  fifty  pa- 
pers to  Steele's  Guardian,  and  wrote  a  con- 
siderable number  of  political  and  other  es- 
says; but  his  fame  rests  mainly  upon  the 
Spectator  in  its  first  form.  Of  the  550  Num- 
bers about  250  were  by  Addison;  and  these 
are  by  far  the  best  in  the  work.  Macaulay 
even  affirms  that  ' '  his  worst  essay  is  as  good 
as  the  best  essay  of  any  of  his  coadjutors."  As 
the  Spectator  continued  only  tAvo  years  Addi- 
son must  have  written  an  average  of  between 
two  and  three  essays  every  week.  The  sub- 
jects of  these  are  of  the  most  varied.  On 
Monday,  perhaps,  there  would  be  an  ingen- 
ious allegory;  on  Tuesday  an  Eastern  apo- 
logue ;  on  Wednesday,  a  bit  of  character  paint- 
ing, on  Tliursday ,  a  sketch  from  common  life ; 
on  Friday,  a  good-natured  but  keen  hit  at 
some  fashionable  foible ;  on  Saturday ,  a  relig- 
ious meditation  w^ell-fitted  for  the  ensuing 
day  of  rest ;  and  so  on  for  alternate  days  for 
more  than  a  hundred  weeks,  the  author  being 
all  the  while  in  constant  occupation  in  impor- 
tant public  offices.  Selections  can  give  only 
a  vei'y  general  idea  of  the  naanner  and  tone  of 
essays  so  varied. 

A   VISIT   TO    WESTMINSTEIt    ABBEY. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  huuKu-,  I  very  often 
walk  by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey;  wliere  the 
gloominess  of  the  place  and  the  uses  to  which  it  is 
applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and 
the  condition  of  the  people  vho  lie   in   it.  arc  apt 


no  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or 
rather  thoughtfulness  which  is  not  disagreeable. 
I  yesterday  passed  a  whole  day  in  the  church- 
yard, the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amusing  my- 
self with  the  tombstones  and  inscriptions  that  I 
met  with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead. 
Most  of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried 
person  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and 
died  upon  auothei'.  The  whole  history  of  his  life 
being  comprehended  in  those  two  circumstances, 
that  are  common  to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but 
look  upon  these  registers  of  existence,  whether  of 
brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of  Satire  upon  the  de- 
parted persons,  who  had  left  no  other  memorial 
of  them  but  that  they  were  born  and  that  they 
died. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  Church,  I  entertained 
myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave ;  and  saw  in 
every  shovelful  of  it  that  was  thrown  up,  the 
fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull  intermixed  with  a 
kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth,  that  some  time  or 
other  had  had  a  place  in  the  composition  of  an  hu- 
man body.  Upon  this,  I  began  to  consider  with 
myself  what  innumerable  multitudes  of  peojjle  lay 
confused  together  under  the  pavement  of  that 
ancient  cathedral;  how  men  and  women,  friends 
and  enemies,  priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  pre- 
bendaries, were  crumbled  amongst  one  another, 
and  blended  together  in  the  same  common  mass; 
how  beauty,  sti'ength,  and  youth,  with  old  age, 
weakness,  and  deformity  lay  undistinguished  in 
the  same  promiscuous  mass  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great  Magazine 
of  Mortality,  as  it  were,  in  the  lump,  I  examined 
it  more  particularly  by  the  accounts  which  I  found 
on  several  of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in 
every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of 
them  were  covered  with  such  extravagant  epi- 
taphs, that,  if  it  were  possible  for  the  dead  person 
to  be  acquainted  with  them,  he  would  blush  at 
the  praises  which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon 
him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest  that 
they  deliver  the  character  of  the  person  departed 
in  Greek  or  Hebrew.  I  found  there  were  poets 
who  had  no  monuments,  and  likewise  monuments 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  Ill 

which  had  no  poets.  I  observed  indeed  that  the 
present  war  had  filled  the  Church  with  many  of 
these  uninhabited  monuments,  which  had  been 
erected  to  the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies 
were  perhaps  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim,  or 
in  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  I  could  not  but  be 
very  much  delighted  with  several  modern  epi- 
taphs, which  are  written  with  great  elegance  of 
expression  and  justness  of  thought,  and  therefore 
do  honor  to  the  living  as  well  as  to  the  dead. 
I  have  left  the  repository  of  our  English  Kings  for 
the  contemplation  of  another  day,  when  I  shall 
find  my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an  amuse- 
ment. 

I  know  that  entertainments  of  this  nature  are 
apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timorous 
minds  and  gloomy  imaginations.  But  for  my  own 
part,  though  I  am  always  serious,  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  be  melancholy;  and  can  therefore 
take  a  view  of  Nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn 
scenes,  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay 
and  delightful  ones.  By  this  I  can  improve  my- 
self with  those  objects  which  others  consider  with 
terror.  When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  Great, 
every  emotion  of  envy  dies  within  me;  when  1 
read  the  epitaphs  of  the  Beautiful,  every  inordi- 
nate desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief 
of  Parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with 
compassion ;  when  I  see  the  tombs  of  the  Parents 
themselves  I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for 
those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see 
Kings  lying  side  by  side  with  those  who  deposed 
them ;  when  I  consider  rival  Wits  placed  side  by 
side,  or  the  Holy  Men  that  divided  the  world  with 
their  contests  and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow 
and  astonishment  on  the  little  competitions,  fac- 
tions, and  debates  of  Mankind.  When  I  read  the 
several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died  yes- 
terday, and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  con- 
sider that  Great  Day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be 
contemporaries,  and  make  our  appearance  to- 
gether.— Spectator,  No.  26. 


112  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

VISIT    TO   THE    ROYAL    EXCHANGE. 

There  is  no  place  in  the  town  which  I  so  much 
love  to  frequent  as  the  Royal  Exchange.  It  gives 
me  a  secret  satisfaction,  and  in  some  measure 
gratifies  my  vanity,  as  I  am  an  Englishman,  to  see 
so  rich  an  assemljly  of  comitryraen  and  foreign- 
ers consulting  together  on  the  private  business  of 
mankind,  and  making  this  metropolis  a  kind  of 
Emporium  for  the  whole  earth.  I  must  confess 
that  I  look  upon  High-Change  to  be  a  great  Coun- 
cil, in  which  all  considerable  nations  have  their 
representatives.  Factors  in  the  trading  world  are 
Avhat  Ambassadors  i.re  in  the  politic  world:  they 
negotiate  affairs,  and  maintain  a  good  correspond- 
ence between  those  wealthy  societies  of  men  that 
are  divided  from  one  another  by  seas  and  oceans, 
or  live  on  the  different  extremities  of  a  continent. 
I  am  infinitely  delighted  in  mixing  with  these 
several  Ministers  of  Commerce,  as  they  are  dis- 
tinguished by  their  different  walks  and  different 
languages.  Sometimes  I  am  jostled  among  a  body 
of  Amei'icans;  sometimes  I  am  lost  in  a  crowd  of 
JeAvs;  and  sometimes  make  one  in  a  group  of 
Dutchmen.  I  am  a  Dane.  Swede,  a  Frenchman 
at  different  times,  or,  rather,  fancy  myself  like 
the  old  philosopher,  who,  upon  being  asked  what 
countryman  he  was,  replied  that  he  was  "a  Citi- 
zen of  the  V.'orld."  .... 

This  grand  scene  of  business  gives  me  an  infinite 
variety  of  solid  and  substantial  entertainments. 
As  I  am  a  great  lover  of  Mankind,  my  heart  natu- 
rally overflows  with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  a 
prosperous  and  happy  multitude,  insomuch  that 
at  many  public  solemnities,  I  cannot  forbear  at 
expressing  my  joy  with  tears  that  have  stolen 
down  my  cheeks.  For  this  reason  I  am  wonder- 
fully delighted  to  see  such  a  body  of  men  thriving 
in  their  own  private  fortunes,  and  at  the  same 
time  promoting  the  public  stock;  or,  in  other 
words,  raising  estates  for  their  own  families,  by 
bringing  into  their  country  whatever  is  wanting, 
and  carrying  out  of  it  whatever  is  superfluous, 

Nature  seems  to  have  taken  special  care  to  dis- 
seminate her  blessings  among  the  different  regions 
of  the  world,  with   an  eve  to  this  mutual   inter- 


JOSEPH  AUDI. SOX.  IIM 

course  and  ti-affic  among  mankind,  that  the  na- 
tives of  the  several  parts  of  the  globe  might  have 
a  kind  of  dependence  upon  one  another,  and  be 
united  together  by  their  common  interest.  Al- 
most every  degree  produces  something  peculiar  to 
it.  The  food  often  grows  in  one  country,  and  the 
sauce  in  another.  The  fruits  of  Portugal  are 
corrected  by  the  sauce  of  Barbadoes;  the  infu- 
sion of  a  China  plant  sweetened  with  the  pith 
of  an  Indian  cane;  the  Philippine  Islands  give  a 
flavor  to  our  European  bowls.  The  single  dress 
of  a  woman  of  quality  is  often  the  product  of 
an  hundred  climates:  the  mufC  and  the  fan  come 
together  f rum  the  different  ends  of  the  eartli ;  the 
scarf  is  sent  from  the  torrid  zone,  and  the  tippet 
from  beneath  the  pole;  the  brocade  petticoat  ri.ses 
out  of  the  mines  of  Peru,  and  the  diamond  neck- 
lace out  of  the  bowels  of  Indostan. 

If  we  consider  our  own  country  in  its  natural 
prospect,  without  any  of  the  benefits  and  advan- 
tages of  commerce,  what  a  barren,  uncomfortable 
spot  of  earth  falls  to  our  share!  Natural  liisto- 
rians  tell  us  that  no  fruit  grows  originally  among 
us,  besides  hips  and  haws,  acorns  and  pig-nuts; 
with  other  delicacies  of  the  like  nature ;  that  our 
climate  of  itself,  and  without  the  assistance  of 
art,  can  make  no  further  advances  towards  a  plum 
than  to  a  sloe,  and  carries  an  apple  to  no  greater 
a  perfection  than  a  crab;  that  our  melons,  our 
peaches,  our  figs,  our  apricots,  and  cherries,  are 
strangers  among  us,  imported  in  different  ages; 
and  that  they  would  all  degenerate  and  fall  away 
into  the  trash  of  our  own  country,  if  they  were 
wholly  neglected  by  the  planter,  and  left  to  the 
mercy  of  our  sun  and  soil. 

Nor  has  traffic  more  enriched  our  vegetable 
world  than  it  lias  improved  the  whole  face  of 
nature  among  us.  Our  ships  are  laden  with  the 
harvest  of  every  climate;  our  tables  are  stored 
with  spices  and  oils  and  wines.  Our  rooms  are 
filled  with  pyramids  of  China,  and  adorned  with 
the  workmanship  of  Japan.  Our  morning's 
draught  comes  to  us  from  the  remotest  corners  of 
the  earth.  We  repair  our  bodies  by  the  drugs  of 
America,    and     repose     ourselves    under    Indian 


114  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

canopies.  My  friend,  Sir  Andrew,  calls  the  vine- 
yards of  France  our  gardens;  the  Spice-Islands 
our  hot-beds;  the  Persians  our  silk-weavers,  and 
the  Chinese  our  potters.  Nature  indeed  furnishes 
with  the  bare  necessaries  of  life ;  but  traffic  gives 
us  a  great  variety  of  what  is  useful,  and  at  the 
same  time  supplies  us  with  everything  that  is 
convenient  and  ornamental 

For  these  reasons,  there  are  not  more  useful 
members  in  a  commonwealth  than  Merchants. 
They  knit  mankind  together  in  a  mutual  inter- 
course of  good  offices;  distribute  the  gifts  of 
nature;  find  work  for  the  poor,  and  wealth  to  the 
rich,  and  magnificence  to  the  great.  Our  English 
merchant  converts  the  tin  of  his  own  country 
into  gold,  and  exchanges  his  wool  for  rubies. 
The  Mahometans  are  clothed  in  our  British  manu- 
factures, and  the  inhabitants  of  the  frozen  zone 
warmed  with  the  fleeces  of  our  sheep. 

When  I  have  been  standing  upon  the  Change,  I 
Jiave  often  fancied  one  of  our  old  Kings  standing 
in  person  where  he  is  represented  in  effigy,  and 
looking  down  upon  the  wealthy  concourse  of 
people  with  which  that  place  is  every  day  filled. 
In  this  case  how  would  he  be  surprised  to  hear  all 
the  languages  of  Europe  spoken  in  this  little  spot 
of  his  former  dominions,  and  to  see  so  many  pri- 
vate men,  who  in  his  time  would  have  been  the 
vassals  of  some  powerful  baron,  negotiating  like 
Princes  for  greater  sums  of  money  than  were 
formerly  to  be  met  with  in  the  royal  treasury! 
Trade,  without  enlarging  the  British  territories, 
has  given  us  a  kind  of  additional  Empire.  It  has 
multiplied  the  number  of  the  rich,  made  our 
landed  estates  infinitely  more  valuable  than  they 
were  formerly,  and  added  to  them  estates  as  valu- 
able as  the  land  themsslves.—Sjjectator,  No.  69. 

THE  DISSECTION   OF   A   BEAU'S  HEAD. 

I  was  invited  to  the  dissection  of  a  Beau's  Head. 
An  operator  opened  it  with  a  great  deal  of  nicety; 
and  upon  a  cursory  and  superficial  view,  it  ap- 
peared like  the  head  of  another  man;  but  upon 
applying  our  glasses  to  it,  we  made  a  very  odd 
discovery,  namely,  that  what  we  looked  upon  as 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  llo 

brains  were  not  such  in  reality,  but  an  heap  of 
strange  materials  wound  up  in  that  shape  and 
texture,  and  packed  together  with  wonderful  art 
in  the  several  cavities  of  the  skull.  For,  as  Homer 
tells  us  that  the  blood  of  the  gods  is  not  real 
blood,  but  only  something  like  it,  so  we  found 
that  the  brain  of  a  beau  is  not  a  real  brain,  but 
only  something  like  it. 

The  Pineal  Gland,  which  many  of  our  modern 
philosophers  supi:)ose  to  be  the  Seat  of  the  Soul, 
smelt  very  strongly  of  essence  and  orange-flower 
water,  and  was  encompassed  with  a  kind  of  horny 
substance,  cut  into  a  thousand  little  faces  or  mir- 
I'ors,  which  were  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye ; 
insomuch  that  the  Soul,  if  there  had  been  any 
here,  must  have  been  always  taken  up  in  con- 
templating her  own  beauties. 

We  observed  a  large  antrum  or  cavity  in  the 
Sinciput,  that  was  filled  with  ribbons,  lace,  and 
embroidery,  wrought  together  in  a  most  curious 
piece  of  network,  the  parts  of  which  were  like- 
wise imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye.  Another  of 
these  antrums  or  cavities  was  stuffed  with  invisi- 
ble billet-doux,  love-letters,  pricked  dances,  and 
other  trumpery  of  the  same  nature.  In  another 
we  found  a  kind  of  powder,  which  set  the  whole 
company  sneezing,  and  by  the  scent  discovered 
itself  to  be  "  right  Spanish."  The  several  other 
cells  were  stored  with  commodities  of  the  same 
kind,  of  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  give  the 
reader  an  exact  description. 

There  was  a  large  cavity  on  each  side  of  the 
head,  which  I  must  not  omit.  That  on  the  right 
side  was  filled  with  fictions,  flatteries,  and  false- 
hoods, vows,  promises,  and  protestations ;  that  on 
the  left  with  oaths  and  imprecations.  There 
issued  out  a  duct  from  each  of  these  cells,  which 
ran  into  the  root  of  the  tongue,  where  both  joined 
together,  and  passed  into  one  common  duct  to  the 
tip  of  it.  We  discovered  several  little  roads  or 
canals  running  from  the  ear  into  the  brain,  and 
took  particular  care  to  trace  them  out  through 
their  several  passages.  One  of  them  extended 
itself  to  a  bundle  of  sonnets  and  little  musical  in- 
struments;   others    ended    in    several     bladders 


116  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

which  were  filled  with  wind  or  froth.  But  the 
large  canal  entered  into  a  great  cavity  of  the 
skull,  from  whence  there  went  auotlier  canal  into 
the  tongue.  Tliis  great  cavity  was  filled  with  a 
kind  of  a  spongy  substance,  which  the  French 
anatomists  call  Galimatias,  and  the  English,  "Non- 
sense." 

The  skins  of  the  forehead  were  extremely 
tough  and  thick;  and  what  very  much  suiprised 
lis.  liad  not  in  them  any  single  blood-vessel  that 
we  were  able  to  discover,  either  with  or  without 
our  glasses;  from  which  we  concluded  that  the 
party  when  alive  must  have  been  entirely  deprived 
of  the  faculty  of  blushing. 

The  Os  Crihfifornte  was  exceedingly  stuffed, 
and  in  some  places  damaged  by  snuff.  We  could 
not  but  take  notice  in  particular  of  that  small 
muscle,  which  is  not  often  discovered  in  dissec- 
tions, and  draws  the  nose  upwards,  when  it  ex- 
presses the  contempt  which  tlie  owner  of  it  has, 
upon  seeing  anything  lie  does  not  like,  or  hearing 
anything  he  does  not  understand.  I  need  not  tell 
my  learned  reader,  this  is  that  muscle  which  per- 
forms the  motion  so  often  mentioned  by  the  Latin 
poets,  when  they  talk  of  a  man's  '"cocking  his 
nose,"  or  "  playing  rhinoceros." 

We  did  not  find  anything  remarkable  in  the  Eye, 
saving  only  that  the  Mnsculi  amatorii,  or,  as  we 
may  translate  it  into  English,  the  '"Ogling  Mus- 
cles." were  very  much  worn  and  decayed  with 
use;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the  Elevator,  or  the 
muscle  which  turns  the  eye  towards  Heaven,  did 
not  appear  to  have  been  used  at  all. 

1  have  only  mentioned  in  this  dissection  such 
new  discoveries  as  we  wei-e  able  to  make,  and 
have  not  taken  any  notice  of  those  parts  which 
are  to  be  met  with  in  common  heads.  As  for  the 
skull,  the  face,  and  indeed  the  whole  outward 
shape  and  figure  of  the  head,  we  could  not  dis- 
cover any  difference  from  what  we  discover  in  the 
heads  of  other  men.  AVe  were  informed  that  the 
person  to  whom  this  head  belonged  had  passed 
for  a  Man  above  five-and-thirty  years,  during 
which  time  he  ate  and  drank  like  other  people; 
drcbscd  well,  talked  loud,  laughed  frequently,  and 


JOSEl'lI  ADDLSUX.  IH 

on  particular  occasions  has  acquitted  himself  tol- 
ei  ably  at  a  ball  or  an  assembly;  to  which  one  of  the 
company  added,  that  a  certain  knot  of  ladies  took 
him  for  a  Wit.— Sijectatur,  No.  275. 

THE  TRANSMIGEATION  OF  I'lTG,  TUE  MONKEY. 

Will  Honeycomb  told  us  that  Jack  Freelove,  who 
was  a  fellow  of  whim,  made  love  to  one  of  those 
ladies  who  throw  away  all  their  fondness  upon 
parrots,  monkeys,  and  lap-dogs.  Upon  going  to 
pay  her  a  visit  one  morning  he  wrote  a  very 
pretty  epistle  upon  this  hint.  Jack,  says  Will, 
was  conducted  into  the  parlor,  where  he  diverted 
himself  for  some  time  with  her  favorite  monkey, 
which  was  chained  in  one  of  the  windows;  till 
at  length  observing  a  pen  and  ink  lie  by  him,  he 
writ  the  following  letter  to  his  mistress,  in  the 
person  of  her  monkey;  and  upon  her  not  coming 
down  so  soon  as  he  expected,  left  it  in  the  win- 
dow, and  went  about  his  business.  The  lady  soon 
after  coming  into  the  parlor,  and  seeing  her  mon- 
key look  upon  a  paper  with  great  earnestness, 
took  it  up,  and  to  this  day  is  in  some  doubt— says 
Will — whether  it  was  written  by  Jack  or  the  Mon- 
key: 

"  Madam— Not  having  the  gift  of  speech,  I  have 
for  a  long  time  waited  in  vain  for  an  opportunity 
of  making  myself  known  to  you;  and  having  at 
present  the  convenience  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper  by 
me,  I  gladly  take  the  occasion  of  givmg  you  my 
history  in  writing,  which  I  could  not  do  by  word 
of  mouth : 

"  You  must  know.  Madam,  that  about  a  thou- 
sand years  ago  I  was  an  Indian  Brachman,  and 
versed  in  all  those  mysterious  secrets  which  your 
European  philosopher,  called  Pythagoras,  is  said 
to  have  learned  from  our  fraternity.  I  had  so 
ingratiated  myself  by  my  great  skill  in  the  occult 
sciences  with  a  Da3mon  whom  I  used  to  converse 
with,  that  he  promised  to  grant  me  whatever  I 
should  ask  of  him.  I  desired  that  my  soul  might 
never  pass  into  the  body  of  a  brute  creature ;  but 
this  he  told  me  was  not  in  his  power  to  grant  me. 
I  then  begged  that  into  whatever  creature  I  should 
chance  to  transmigrate.  I  might  still  retain  ray 


118  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

memory,  and  be  conscious  that  I  was  the  same 
person  who  had  Hved  in  different  animarls. 

"  This  he  told  me  was  within  his  power,  and 
accordingly  promised,  on  the  word  of  a  Daemon, 
that  he  would  grant  me  what  1  desired.  From 
that  time  forth  I  lived  so  very  unblamably,  that  I 
was  made  President  of  a  College  of  Braciimans — 
an  office  which  I  discharged  with  great  integrity 
till  the  day  of  my  death. 

"  I  was  then  shutiled  into  another  human  body, 
and  acted  my  part  so  well  in  it  that  I  became 
First  Minister  to  a  Prince  who  lived  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges.  I  here  lived  in  great  honor 
for  several  years;  but  by  degrees  lost  all  the  inno- 
cence of  the  Brachman,  being  obliged  to  rifle  and 
oppress  the  people  to  enrich  my  sovereign;  till  at 
length  I  became  so  odious  that  my  master,  to  re- 
cover his  credit  with  his  subjects,  shot  me  through 
the  heart  with  an  arrow,  as  I  was  one  day  address- 
ing myself  to  him  at  the  head  of  his  army. 

"  Upon  my  next  remove  I  found  myself  in  the 
woods  under  the  shape  of  a  Jackall,  and  soon 
lifted  myself  into  the  service  of  a  lion.  I  used  to 
yelp  near  his  den  about  midnight,  which  was  liis 
time  of  rousing  and  seeking  after  his  prey.  He 
always  followed  me  in  the  rear,  and  when  I  had 
run  down  a  fat  buck,  a  wild  goat,  or  an  hare, 
after  he  had  feasted  very  plentifully  upon  it  him- 
self, would  now  and  then  throw  me  a  l)one  that 
was  half-picked,  for  my  encouragement;  but  upon 
my  being  unsuccessful  in  two  or  three  chases,  he 
gave  me  such  a  confounded  grip  in  his  anger, 
that  I  died  of  it. 

"In  my  next  transmigration  I  was  again  set  up- 
on two  legs,  and  became  an  Indian  Tax-gatherer, 
i  but  having  been  guilty  of  great  extravagances, 
and  being  married  to  an  expensive  jade  of  a  wife, 
I  ran  so  cursedly  in  debt,  that  I  durst  not  show 
my  head.  I  could  no  sooner  step  out  of  my  hou.se 
but  I  was  arrested  by  somebody  or  other  that  lay 
in  wait  for  me.  As  I  ventured  abroad  one  night 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  I  Avas  taken  up  and 
hurried  into  a  dungeon,  where  I  died  a  few 
months  after. 

''  My  soul  then  entered  into  a  flying  flsh,  and  in 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  HO 

that  state  I  led  a  most  melancholy  life  for  the 
space  of  six  years.  Several  fishes  of  prey  pursuetl 
me  when  I  was  in  the  water,  and  if  I  betook  myself 
to  my  wings,  it  was  ten  to  one  but  I  had  a  flock  of 
birds  aiming  at  me.  As  I  was  one  day  flying 
amidst  a  fleet  of  English  ships,  I  observed  a  huge 
Sea-gull  whetting  his  bill,  and  hovering  just  over 
mv  head.  Upon  my  dipping  into  the  water  to 
avoM  him,  I  fell  into  the  mouth  of  a  monstrous 
shark  that  swallowed  me  down  in  an  instant. 

"  I  was  some  years  afterwards,  to  my  great  sur- 
prise, an  eminent  Banker  in  Lombard  Street;  and 
remembering  how  I  had  formerly  suffered  for  want 
of  money,  became  so  very  sordid  and  avaricious 
that  the  whole  town  cried  shame  upon  me.  I  was 
a  miserable  little  old  fellow  to  look  upon;  for  I  had 
in  a  manner  starved  myself,  and  was  nothing  but 
skin  and  bone  when  I  died. 

*'  I  was  afterwards  very  much  troubled  and 
amazed  to  find  myself  dwindled  to  an  Emmet.  I 
was  heartily  concerned  to  make  so  insigniflcant  a 
figure,  and  did  not  know  but  some  time  or  other  I 
might  be  reduced  to  a  mite,  if  I  did  not  mend  my 
manners.  I  therefore  applied  myself  with  great 
diligence  to  the  offices  that  were  allotted  to  me, 
and  was  generally  looked  upon  as  the  notablest 
ant  in  the  whole  molehill.  I  was  at  last  picked  up, 
as  I  was  groaning  under  a  burden,  by  an  unlucky 
cock-sparrow  that  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
had  before  made  great  depredations  upon  our 
connnonwealth. 

"  I  then  bettered  my  condition  a  little,  and 
lived  a  whole  summer  in  the  shape  of  a  Bee;  but 
being  tired  of  the  painful  and  penurious  life  I 
had  undergone,  in  my  last  two  transmigrations,  I 
fell  into  the  other  extreme,  and  turned  Drone. 
As  I  one  day  headed  a  party  to  plunder  an  hive, 
■we  were  received  so  warmly  by  the  swarm  whicli 
defended  it,  that  we  were  for  the  most  part  left 
dead  upon  the  spot. 

"  I  might  tell  of  many  other  transmigrations 
■which  I  went  through :  How  I  was  a  Town  Rake, 
and  afterwards  did  penance  in  a  bay  Gelding  for 
ten  years:  As  also  how  I  was  a  Tailor,  a  Shrimp, 
and  a  Tom-tit.     In  the   last  of  these  my  shapes  I 


120  .lO.SEl'H   ADDiSOX, 

was  shot  iu  the  Christmas  holidays  by  a  young 
jaclcanapes,  who  woukl  needs  try  his  new  gun 
upon  me. 

"  But  I  shall  pass  over  these,  and  several  other 
stages  of  life  to  remind  you  of  the  young  Beau, 
who  made  love  to  you  about  six  years  since.  You 
may  remember,  Madam,  how  he  masked  and 
danced,  and  sung,  and  played  a  thousand  tricks  to 
gain  you;  and  how  he  was  at  last  carried  off  by  a 
cold  that  he  had  got  under  your  window  one 
night  ''in  a  serenade.  I  was  that  unfortunate 
young  fellow  whom  you  were  then  so  cruel  to. 

"  Not  long  after  my  shifting  that  unlucky  body, 
I  found  myself  upon  a  hill  in  Etlrjopia,  where  I 
lived  in  my  i^resent  grotesque  shape,  till  I  was 
caught  by  a  servant  of  the  English  factory,  and 
sent  over  into  Great  Britain.  I  need  not  inform 
you  how  I  came  into  your  hand.  You  see,  Madam, 
this  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  had  me  in  a 
chain.  I  am,  however,  very  happy  in  this  my  cap- 
tivity, as  you  often  bestow  on  me  those  kisses  and 
caresses  which  I  would  have  given  the  world  for 
when  I  was  a  man.  I  hope  this  discovery  of  my 
person  will  not  tend  to  my  disadvantage ;  but  that 
you  will  still  continue  your  accustomed  favors  to 
Your  most  devoted  and  humble  Servant,  Pugg. 

"P.  S.  I  would  advise  your  little  Shock-dog 
to  keep  out  of  my  way;  for,  as  I  look  upon  him  to 
be  the  most  formidable  of  my  rivals,  I  may  chance 
one  time  or  other  to  give  him  such  a  snap  as  he 
won't  like." — Spectator,  No.  343. 

Some  of  Addison's  Essays  in  the  Spectator 
form  connected  series,  each  of  which  would 
constitute  a  considerable  volume.  Among 
these  are  the  critiques  upon  Milton's  Para- 
dise Lost,  and  upon  the  English  Ballads. 
Of  these  Macaulay  says:  "They  are  always 
luminous,  and  often  ingenious.  The  very 
Avorst  of  them  must  be  regarded  as  creditable 
to  him,  Avhen  the  character  of  the  school  in 
which  he  had  been  trained  is  fairly  con- 
sidered. The  best  of  them  were  much  too 
good  for  his  readers.     In  truth,  he  was  not 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  121 

SO  far  behind  our  generation  as  he  was  before 
his  own."  The  Essays  in  which  Sir  Eoger  de 
Coverly  and  his  friends  appear  as  characters 
"can  hardly  "  continues  Macaulay,  "be  said 
to  form  a  plot ;  yet  they  are  related  with  such 
ti-uth,  such  grace,  such  wit,  such  humor,  such 
pathos,  such  knowledge  of  the  human  heart, 
such  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world,' 
that  they  charm  us  on  the  hundredth  perusal. 
We  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  if  Addison 
had  written  a  novel  on  an  extensive  plan,  it 
would  have  been  superior  to  any  that  we  pos- 
sess. As  it  is,  he  is  entitled  to  be  considered 
not  only  as  the  greatest  of  the  English  Essay- 
ists, but  as  the  forerunner  of  the  great  English 
Novelists."  These  papers  are  brought  to  a 
fitting  close  by  the  account  of  the  death  of 
the  good  old  Knight : 

THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  KOGEK  DE  COVEELY. 

We  last  night  received  a  piece  of  ill  news  at  our 
Club,  wliicli  very  sensibly  afflicted  every  one  of 
us.  I  question  not  but  my  readers  themselves  will 
be  troubled  at  the  hearing  of  it.  To  keep  them 
no  longer  in  suspense,  Sir  Boger  de  Coverly  is  dead. 
He  departed  this  life  at  his  house  in  the  country, 
after  a  few  weeks"  sickness.  Sir  Andrew  Freei^ort 
has  a  letter  from  one  of  his  correspondents  in 
those  parts,  that  informs  him  the  old  man  caught 
a  cold  at  the  county-sessions,  as  he  was  warmly 
promotino-  an  Address  of  his  own  penning  in 
which  he  succeeded  according  to  his  wishes.  But 
this  particular  comes  from  a  Whig  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  who  was  always  Sir  Eoger' s  enemy  and  an- 
tagonist. I  have  letters  from  the  Chaplain  and 
Captain  Sentry,  which  mention  nothing  of  it,  but 
are  filled  with  many  particulars  to  the  honor  of 
the  death  of  the  good  old  man.  I  have  likewise  a 
letter  from  the  Butler  who  took  such  care  of  me 
last  summer  when  I  was  at  the  Knight's  house. 
As  my  friend  the  Butler  mentions,  in  the  simplic- 
ity of  his  heart,  several  circumstances  the  others 
have  passed  over  in  silence,  I  shall  give  my  reader 


122  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

a  copy  of  his  letter,  without  any  alteration  or 
diminution  : 

"  Honored  Sir — Knowing  that  you  were  my  mas- 
ter's good  friend,  I  could  not  forbear  sending  you 
the  melancholy  news  of  his  death,  which  has  af- 
flicted the  whole  country,  as  well  as  his  poor  ser- 
vants, who  loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than  we 
did  our  lives.  I  am  afraid  he  caught  his  death 
the  last  county-sessions,  where  he  would  go  to  see 
justice  done  to  a  poor  widow  woman,  and  her 
fatherless  children,  that  had  been  wronged  by  a 
neighboring  Gentleman;  for  you  know  my  good 
master  was  alwaj«  the  poor  man's  friend. 

"Upon  his  coming  home  the  first  complaint  he 
made  was,  that  he  had  lost  his  roast-beef  stomach, 
not  being  able  to  touch  a  sirloin,  which  was  served 
up  according  to  custom;  and  you  know  he  used  to 
take  great  delight  in  it.  From  that  time  forward 
he  grew  worse  and  worse,  hut  still  kept  a  good 
heart  to  the  last.  Indeed  we  were  once  in  great 
hopes  of  his  recovery,  upon  a  kind  message  that 
was  sent  him  from  a  widow  Lady  whom  he  liad 
made  love  to  the  forty  last  years  of  his  life;  but 
this  only  proved  a  ligh'tening  before  his  death. 
He  has  bequeathed  to  this  Lady,  as  a  token  of  liis 
love,  a  great  pearl  necklace,  and  a  couple  of  silver 
bracelets  set  with  jewels,  which  belonged  to  my 
good  old  Lady,  his  mother. 

"He  has  bequeathed  the  fine  white  gelding  that 
he  used  to  ride  a-hunting  upon,  to  his  Chaplain, 
because  he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him ;  and 
he  has  left  you  all  his  books.  He  has  moreover, 
bequeathed  to  the  Chaplain  a  very  pretty  ten- 
ement with  good  lands  about  it.  It  being  a  very 
cold  day  when  he  made  his  will,  he  left  for  mourn- 
ing, to  every  man  in  the  parish,  a  great  frieze-coat, 
and  to  every  woman  a  black  liding-hood. 

"  It  was  a  very  moving  sight  to  see  him  take 
leave  of  his  poor  servants,  commending  us  all  for 
oiu'  fidelity,  whilst  we  were  not  alle  to  speak  a 
word  for  weeping.  As  we  most  of  us  are  grown 
gray-headed  in  our  dear  master's  service,  he  has 
left  us  pensions  and  legacies,  which  we  may  live 
very  comfortably  upon  the  remaining  part  of  our 
days.     He  has  beipieathed  a  great  deal  more  in 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  123 

chanty,  which  is  not  yet  come  to  my  knowledge; 
and  it  is  peremptorily  said  in  the  parish,  that'  he 
has  left  money  to  buikl  a  steeple  to  the  Church; 
for  he  was  heard  to  say  some  time  ago,  that  if  he 
lived  two  years  longer,  Coverly  Church  should 
have  a  steeple  to  it.  The  Chaplain  tells  everybody 
that  he  made  a  very  good  end,  and  never  speaks 
of  him  without  tears. 

"  He  was  buried,  according  to  his  own  dii-ec- 
tions,  among  the  family  of  the  Coverlies,  on  the 
left  hand  of  his  father.  Sir  Arthur.  The  coffin 
was  carried  by  six  of  his  tenants,  and  the  pall 
held  by  six  of  the  Quorum.  The  whole  parish 
followed  the  corpse,  with  heavy  hearts,  and  in 
their  mourning  suits,  the  men  in  frieze,  and  the 
women  in  riding-hoods. 

"Captain  Sentry,  my  master's  nephew,  has 
taken  possession  of  the  Hall-iiouse,  and  the  whole 
estate.  When  my  old  master  saw  him  a  little  be- 
fore his  death,  he  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and 
wished  him  joy  of  the  estate  which  was  falling  to 
him,  desiring  him  only  to  make  a  good  use  of  it,  and 
to  pay  the  several  legacies  and  the  gifts  of  charity, 
which  he  told  him  he  had  left  as  quit-rents  upon 
the  estate.  The  Captain  truly  seems  a  courteous 
man,  though  he  says  but  little.  He  makes  much 
of  those  whom  my  master  loved,  and  shows  great 
kindness  to  the  old  house-dog,  that  you  know  my 
poor  master  was  so  fond  of.  It  would  have  gone 
to  your  heart  to  have  heard  the  moans  the  dumb 
creature  made  on  the  day  of  my  master's  death. 
He  has  never  joyed  himself  since;  no  more  has 
any  of  us.  It  was  the  melancholiest  day  for  the 
poor  people  that  ever  happened  in  Worcester- 
shire. This  being  all  from.  Honored  Sif,  Yonr 
most  Sorrowful  Servant,  Edward  Biscuit. 

'' P.S.  My  master  desired,  some  weeks  before 
he  died,  that  a  book  which  comes  up  to  you  by 
the  carrier  should  be  given  to  Sir  Andrew  Free- 
port  in  his  name." 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  Butler's 
manner  of  writing  it,  gave  us  such  an  idea  of  our 
good  old  friend  tliat  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in 
the  Club.  Sir  Andrew,  opening  the  book,  found 
it  to  be  a  collection  of  Acts  of  Parliament.     There 


124  ^:SCHlNEy. 

was  in  particular  the  Act  of  Uniformity,  with 
soiiie  jjassages  in  it  marked  by  Sir  Roger's  own 
hand.  Sir  Andrew  found  that  they  related  to  two 
or  three  points  which  he  had  disputed  with  Sir 
Roger  the  last  time  he  appeared  at  the  Club.  Sir 
Andrew,  who  would  have  been  merry  at  such  an 
incident  on  another  occasion,  at  the  sight  of  the 
old  man's  hand-writing  burst  into  tears,  and  put 
the  book  into  his  pocket.  Captain  Sentry  informs 
me  that  the  Knight  has  left  rings  and  mourning 
for  every  one  in  the  Club. — Spectator,  No.  517. 

uESCHINES,  an  Athenian  orator,  and  the 
most  noted  rival  of  Demosthenes,  born  at 
Athens,  389  B.C.;  died  at  Samos,  314  B.C. 
The  accounts  of  his  origin  are  contradictory. 
He  entered  into  piiblic  service  at  an  early 
age ;  became  an  actor,  served  with  credit  in 
the  army,  and  afterwards  appeared  as  a  pub- 
lic orator.  In  347  B.C.,  he  was  one  of  the  ten 
ambassadors,  among  w' horn  Avas  Demosthenes, 
who  were  sent  by  the  Athenians  to  negotiate 
a  peace  with  Philip  of  Macedon.  ^schines 
favored  the  alliance  with  Philip,  and  zealously 
opposed  the  policy  advocated  by  Demos- 
thenes. In  338  B.C.,  ^schines  after  the  bat- 
tle of  Chseronea,  an  Athenian,  named  Ctesi- 
phon,  proposed  that  the  State  should  bestow 
the  honor  of  a  golden  crown  upon  Demos- 
thenes, ^schines  brought  a  charge  against 
Ctesiphon  of  having  introduced  an  illegal 
measure  into  the  assemblage.  The  case  was 
not  bl-ought  to  trial  until  six  years  after, 
when  Philip  was  dead.  The  action  though 
nominally  against  Ctesiphon,  was  really  an 
impeachment  of  Demosthenes.  The  oration 
of  Demosthenes  On  the  Croivn,  in  reply  to 
^schines,  is  one  of  his  most  famous  pro- 
ductions. Ctesiphon,  or,  rather,  Demos- 
thenes, was  acquitted,  and  ^Eschines  was 
mulcted  in  a  heavy  fine  for  having  brought 
forward  a  factious  resolution.     He  was  un- 


iESCHINES.  125 

able  to  pay  the  fine,  and  went  to  the  island 
of  Samos,  where  he  taught  oratory  with 
great  success.  Only  three  of  his  orations 
are  extant :  one  on  his  Embassy,  one  against 
Timarchus,  and  the  one  against  Ctesiphon. 

AGAINST  CTESIPHON 

[The  Exonliuin.]  You  see,  Athenians,  what  forces 
are  prepared,  what  numbers  are  formed,  and  ar- 
rayed, what  sohciting  through  the  Assembly,  by 
a  certain  party :  and  all  this  to  oppose  the  fair  and 
ordinary  course  of  justice  in  the  State.  As  to  nyg, 
I  stand  in  firm  reliance,  first,  on  tlie  Immortal 
Gods ;  next  on  the  Laws  and  you,  convinced  that 
Faction  never  can  have  greater  weight  with  you 
than  Law  and  Justice.  .  .  .  Let  it  also  be  re- 
membered that  the  whole  body  of  our  citizens 
hath  now  committed  their  State,  their  Liberties 
into  your  hands.  Some  of  them  are  present  wait- 
ing the  event  of  this  trial;  otliers  are  called  away 
to  attend  on  their  private  affairs.  Show  tlie  due 
reverence  to  tliese;  remember  your  oaths  and  yoiu- 
laws;  and  if  we  convict  Ctesiphon  of  liaving  pro- 
posed decrees,  illegal,  false,  and  detrimental  to  the 
State,  reverse  these  illegal  decrees,  assert  the 
fi'eedom  of  your  Constitution,  and  i^unish  those 
who  have  administered  your  affairs  in  opposition 
to  your  Laws,  in  contempt  of  your  Constitution, 
and  in  total  disregard  of  your  interests.  If  with 
these  sentiments  impressed  on  your  minds,  you 
attend  to  what  is  now  to  be  proposed,  you  must, 
I  am  convinced,  proceed  to  a  decision  just  and  re- 
ligious— a  decision  of  the  utmost  advantage  to 
yourselves  and  to  the  State.  As  to  the  general 
nature  of  this  prosecution,  thns  far  have  I  pre- 
mised, and  I  trust,  without  offence.  Let  me  now 
request  your  attention  to  a  few  words  about  the 
laws  relative  to  persons  accountable  to  the  Public, 
which  have  been  violated  by  the  decree  proposed 
by  Ctesiphon.  .  .  . 

[The  Peroration.]  And  now  bear  witness  for  me, 
thou  Earth,  thou  Sun;  O  Virtue  and  Intelligence, 
and  thou,  O  Erudition,  which  teacheth  us  the  just 
distinction  between  Vice  and  Virtue,  I  have  stood 


126  ^SCHYLUS. 

up,  I  have  spoken  in  the  cause  of  Justice.  I  have 
supported  my  prosecution  with  a  dignity  befitting 
its  importance.  I  liave  spoken  as  my  wislies  dic- 
tated ;  if  too  deficiently,  as  my  abilities  admitted. 
Let  what  hath  now  been  offered,  and  what  your 
own  thoughts  must  supply,  be  duly  weighed ;  and 
do  you  i^ronounce  such  a  sentence  as  justice  and 
the  interests  of  the  State  demand. — Transl.  of 
Leland. 

^SCHYLUS,  the  earliest  of  the  three  great 
Greek  tragic  poets,  born  at  Eleusis,  525  B.C., 
cffed  at  Gela,  in  Sicily,  455  B.C.  He  was  of  a 
noble  family,  tracing  its  descent  from  Codrus 
the  last  King  of  Athens.  His  first  attempt  as  a 
tragic  poet  was  made  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five.  He  subsequently  distinguished  himself 
as  a  soldier,  being  present  at  the  battles  of 
Marathon,  Salamis,  and  Plataea.  He  gained 
his  first  tragic  prize  at  an  early  age,  and 
subsequently  another  for  a  "trilogy"  or 
series  of  three  dramas  presented  consecu- 
tively at  a  single  representation.  One  of 
these  was  the  Persians,  which  is  still  extant. 
He  gained  in  all  thirteen  prizes  for  tragedy ; 
but  w^hen  he  was  fifty  seven  years  of  age,  he 
was  defeated  for  the  prize  by  Sophocles.  He 
soon  after  left  Athens  and  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  Sicily,  because,  as  is  said  by  some, 
he  had  suffered  this  defeat  by  Sophocles ;  but 
according  to  others,  the  reason  was  that  he 
was  charged  with  impiety  in  having  divulged 
the  Eleusinian  mysteries  into  which  he  had 
been  initiated.  A  legend  of  very  doubtful 
authenticity  states  that  he  was  killed  by  a 
tortoise  which  an  eagle  let  fall  upon  the  bald 
head  of  the  poet,  which  he  mistook  for  a 
stone,  ^schylus  is  said  to  have  been  the 
author  of  seventy  dramas,  of  which  all  but 
five  were  tragedies.  Of  these  seven  are  ex- 
tant entire,  and  there  are  fragments  of  several 
others   preserved  in  quotations  by  various 


^SCHYLUS.  127 

authors.  The  extant  dramas  are,  the  Sfn-^en 
Against  Thebes,  the  Siii)2^Uanfs,  the  Persia  ns, 
the  Prometheus  Bound,  the  Agamemnon,  the 
Libation- Bearers,  and  the  Eumenides.  ^Eschy- 
lus  is  the  grandest  of  the  Attic  tragic  poets. 
His  artistic  creed  is  that  there  is  a  bHnd, 
over-ruling,  omnipresent,  inevitable  Fate,  or 
Necessity,  against  which  neither  gods  nor  men 
can  contend  successfully,  and  from  which 
they  cannot  escape;  and  yet  it  is  the  glory 
and  the  duty  of  the  great  good  man  to  strug- 
gle to  the  end  with  luidaunted  resolution. 
Running  all  through  his  dramas  is  the  idea 
of  "ancestral  guilt,  continually  reproducing 
itself  and  continually  punished  from  genera- 
tion to  generation ;  of  hapless  kindred  crimi- 
nals, who  would  not  be  such  if  they  could 
avoid  it ;  but  who  are  goaded  on  to  the  com- 
mission of  ever  new  atrocities  by  the  hered- 
itary curse  of  their  doomed  race :  predestined 
murderers,  adulterers,  and  paracides,  inex- 
tricably involved  in  tlie  dai'k  net  of  Neces- 
sity." 

THE    BINDING   OF   PROMETHEUS. 

[Pkometheus  is  led  in  by  IIeph^stos  and  others: 
Hepii^estos  speaks:] 

0  thou,  Themis,  wise  in  Counsel,  son, 
Full  of  deep  purpose,  lo!  against  my  will, 

1  fetter  thee  against  thy  will  with  bonds 

Of  bronze  that  none  can  loose,  to  this  lone  height, 

"Where  thou  shalt  know  nor  voice  nor  face  of  man, 

But  scorching  in  the  hot  blaze  of  the  Sun, 

Shalt  lose  thy  skin's  fair  beauty.    Tliou  shalt  long 

For  starry-mantled  night  to  hide  day's  sheen, 

For  sun  to  melt  the  rime  of  early  dawn; 

And  evei'more  tlie  weight  of  present  ill 

Shall  wear  thee  down.     Unborn  as  yet  is- he 

Who  shall  release  thee:  tliis  the  fate  thou  gain'st 

As  due  reward  for  thy  philanthropy. 

For  thou,  a  god,  not  fearing  wrath  of  gods, 

In  tliy  transgression  gav'st  tlieir  power  to  men; 


128  .*:SCHYLUS. 

And  therefore  on  this  rock  ot  little  ease 
Thou  shalt  keep  thy  watch,  nor  lying  down. 
Nor  knowing  sleep,  nor  ever  bending  knee; 
And  many  groans  and  wailing  profitless 
Thy  lips  shall  utter;  for  the  mind  of  Zeus 
Eemains  inexorable.     Who  holds  a  power 
But  newly  gained  is  ever  stern  of  mood. 
— Prometheus  Bound,  Transl.  o/Plumptke. 

THE    SOLILOQUY   OF   PKOMETUEUS. 

O  divine  {ether,  and  ye  swift-winged  winds,  and 
ye  fountains  of  rivers,  and  countless  dimplings  of 
the  waves  of  the  deep!  and  thou  Earth,  mother  of 
all,  and  to  the  all-seeing  orb  of  the  Sun,  I  appeal ! 
Look  upon  me,  what  treatment  I,  a  God,  am  en- 
during at  the  hand  of  the  gods!  Behold  with 
Avliat  indignities  mangled  I  shall  have  to  wrestle 
through  time  of  years  innumerable.  Such  an 
ignominious  bondage  hath  the  new  ruler  of  the 
immortals  devised  against  me.  Alas!  alas!  I  sigh 
over  the  present  suffering,  and  that  which  is  com- 
ing on.  How.  where,  must  a  termination  of  these 
toils  arise?  And  yet  what  is  it  I  am  saying?  I 
know  beforehand  all  futurity  exactly,  and  no  suf- 
fering will  come  upon  me  unlooked  for.  But  I 
needs  must  bear  my  doom  as  easily  as  may  be, 
knowing,  as  I  do  that  the  might  of  Necessity  can- 
not be  resisted. — But  it  is  not  possible  for  me 
either  to  hold  my  peace,  or  not  to  hold  my  peace, 
touching  these  my  fortunes.  For  having  bestowed 
boons  upon  mortals,  I  am  enthralled  unhappily  in 
these  hardships.  And  I  am  he  that  hath  searched 
out  the  source  of  fire,  by  stealth  borne-off  en- 
closed in  a  fennel-stalk,  which  hath  shown  itself 
a  teacher  of  every  art  to  mortals,  and  a  great 
resource.  Such  then  as  this  is  the  vengeance  that 
I  endure  for  my  trespasses,  being  riveted  in  fetters 
beneath  the  naked  sky. — Prometheus  Bound,  Lit- 
eral Transl.  of  Buckley. 

THE   WARNING   OF   HERMES   TO   PROMETHEUS. 

I  have,  methinks,  said  much  in  vain; 
For  still  thy  heart,  beneath  my  shower  of  prayers, 
Lies  dry  and  hard — nay,  leaps  like  a  young  horse 
Who  bites  against  the  new  bit  in  his  teeth. 


And   tugs   iuid    struggles    against   the   ncw-tricd 

rein — 
Still  tiercest  in  the  feeblest  thii.g  of  all — 
^Vhich  sophism  is,  since  absolute  Will  disjoined 
From  perfect  Mind  is  worse  than  weak.     Behold, 
Unless  my  words  persuade  thee,  what  a  blast 
And  whirlwind  of  inevitable  woe 
Must  sweep  persuasion  through  thee  I    For  at  lirst 
The  Father  will  split  up  this  jut  of  rock 
With  the  great  thunder  and  the  bolted  Manie, 
And  hide  thy  body  where  a  hinge  of  stone 
Shall  catch  it  like  an  arm;  and  when  thou  hast 

passed 
A  long  black  time  within,  thou  shalt  come  out 
To  front  the  sun  while  Zeus's  winged  hoimd, 
The  strong  carnivorous  eagle,  shall  wheel  down 
To  meet  thee,  self-called  to  a  daily  feast, 
And  set  his  fierce  beak  in  thee,  and  tear  off 
The  long  rags  of  thy  liesh,  and  batten  deep 
Ul)on  thy  dusky  liver.     Do  not  look 
For  any  end  moreover  to  this  curse, 
Or  ere  some  god  appear,  to  accept  thy  Jiangs 
On  his  own  head  vicarious,  and  descend 
With  unreluctant  step  the  darks  of  hell 
And  gloomy  abysses  around  Tartarus. 
Then  ponder  this  '.—this  threat  is  not  a  growth 
Of  vain  invention;  it  is  spoken  and  meant  I 
King  Zeus's  mouth  is  impotent  to  lie 
Consummating  the  utterance  by  the  act: — 
So,  look  to  it,  thou !— take  heed— and  nevermore 
Forget  good  counsel  to  indulge  self-will. 

—Prometheus  Bound,  Traml.  o/"Elizahkth  Bar- 
ret Bkoavning. 

the  i5eacox-lights. 

Hephaistos— sending  a  bright  blaze  from  Ide, 

Beacon  did  beacon  send,  from  fire  the  poster, 

Hitherward :  Ide  to  the  rock  Hermaian 

Of  Lemnos;  and  a  third  great  torch  o'  the  island 

Zeus's  seat  received  in  turn,  the  Atlioan  summit. 

And — so  upsoaring  as  to  stride  sea  over. 

The  strong  lamp-voyager,  and  all  for  joyance— 

Did  the  gold-glorious  splendor,  any  sun  like, 

Pass  on— the  pine-tree — to  Makistos's  watch-place; 

Who  did  not— tardy— caught,  no  wits  about  him. 


i;50  .ESCHYLUS. 

By  sleep — decline  his  portion  of  the  missive. 
And  far  the  beacon's  light,  in  stream  Euriijos 
Arriving,  made  aware  Messapios's  warders, 
And  np  they  lit  in  turn,  played  herald  onwards, 
Kindling  with  tiame  a  heap  of  giay  old  heather, 
And  strengthening  still,  the  lamp,  decaying  nowise, 
.Springing  o'er  Plain  Asopos — full-moon-fashion. 
Effulgent — towards  the  crag  of  Mount  Kithairon, 
Housed  a  new  rendering-up  of  fire  the  escort — 
And  light — far-escort,  lacked  no  recognition 
()'  the  guard — as  burning  more  than  burnings  told 

you. 
And  (»ver  Lake  Gorgopis  light  went  leaping. 
And  at  Mount  Aigiplanktos  safe  arriving. 
Enforced  the  law — "  to  never  stint  the  fire-stuflf." 
And  they  send,  lighting  up  with  ungrudged  vigor, 
Of  flame  a  huge  beard,  ay.  the  very  foreland, 
.So  as  to  strike  above,  in  burning  onward, 
The  look-out  which  commands  the  Strait  Saronic. 
Then  did  it  dart  until  it  reached  the  outpost, 
Mount  Arachnaios  here,  the  city's  neighbor: 
And  then  darts  to  this  roof  of  the  Atreidai 
This  light  of  Ide's  lire  not  imf orefathered ! 
Such  ai-e  the  rules  prescribed  the  tlambeau-bearers; 
He  beats  that's  first  and  also  last  in  running. 
Such  is  the  proof  and  token  I  declare  thee. 
My  husband  having  sent  me  news  from  Troia; 
Troia  do  the  Achaioi  hold  this  same  day. 
— Ayamemnon,  Trunsl.  o/"  Robert  Broavning. 

THE   DOOM   OF   CLYTEMN^ESTRA. 

(roCLYTEMN.ESTRA  enter  Orestes,  her  son,  and 
Pyi>ades:  i/(e  Chorus  of  Captive  Women,  is 
also  }yresent.] 

Orest. — 'Tis  thee  I  seek ;  he  there  has  had  enough. 

(Jlt/t. — Ah  me!  my  loved  ^gisthosl    Art  thou 
dead? 

Orest. — Loved  thou  the  man?    Then  on  the  self- 
same tomb 
Shalt  thou  now  lie,  nor  in  his  death  desert  him. 

Clyt.    {barincj   her   bosom). — Hold,  boy!   respect 
this  breast  of  mine. 
Whence  thou,  my  son,  full  oft,  asleep,  with  tooth- 
less gums, 


^SCHYLUS.  131 

Hast  sucked  the  milk  that  sweetly  fed  thy  life. 
Orest.—What  shall  I  do,  my  Pylades?    Shall  I 
Through  this  respect  forbear  to  slay  my  mother? 
Pylad. — Where  then  are  Loxia's  other  oracles, 
The  Pythian  counsels,  and  the  fast-sworn  vows  ? 
Have  all  men  hostile  rather  than  the  gods. 

Orest. — My  judgment    goes    with    thine;    thou 

speakest  well. 
[To  Clytcemnestra.]   Follow;  I  mean  to  slay  thee 

where  he  lies. 
For  while  he  lived  thou  held'st  him  far  above 
My  father.     Sleep  thou  with  him  in  thy  death. 
Since  thou  lov'st  him,  and  whom  thou  should' st 

love  hatest. 
Clyt. — I  reared  thee,  and  would  fain   grow  old 

with  thee. 
Orest. — What!    thou  live  with  me.  who  did'st 

slay  my  father ! 
Clyt. — Fate,  O  my  son!  must  share  the  blame 

of  that. 
Orest. — This  fatal  doom,   then,  it  is  Fate  that 

sends. 
Clyt. — Dost  thou  not  fear  a  parent's  curse,  my 

son? 
Orest. — Thou,  though  my  mother,  did'st  to  ill 

chance  cast  me. 
Clyt. — No  outcast  thou,  so  sent  to  house  allied. 
Orest. — I  was  sold  doubly,  though  of  free  sire 

born. 
Clyt. — Where  is  the  price,  then,  that  I  got  for 

thee? 
Orest. — I  shrink  for  shame  from  pressing  that 

charge  home. 
Clyt. — Nay,  tell  thy  father's  wantonness  as  well. 
Orest. — Blame  not    the  man    that    toils    when 

thou'rt  at  ease. 
Clyt. — 'Tis  hai'd,  my  son,  for  wives  to  miss  their 

husbands. 
Orest. — The  husband's  toil  keeps  her  that  sits  at 

home. 
Clyt. — Thou  seem'st,  my  son,  about  to  slay  thy 

mother! 
Orest. — It  is  not  I  that  slay  thee,  but  thyself. 
Clyt. — Take  heed,  beware   a  mother's  vengeful 

hounds. 


\:)2  .fiSOHYLFS. 

Orest. — How,  slighting  this,  shall  I  escape  my 

father's  ? 
Clyt. — I  seem,  in  life,  to  wail  as  to  a  tomb. 
Orest. — My  father's  fate  ordains  this  doom  for 

thee. 
Clyt. — Ah  me  I    the  snake  is  here   I  bore  and 

nursed. 
Orest. — An  o'er-true  prophet  was   that  dread, 

dream -born. 
Thou  slewest  one  thou  never  should' st  have  slain; 
Now  suffer  fate  should  never  have  been  thine. 

[Exit  Orestes,  leading  Clytjemnestra  into  the 
palace,  and  followed  by  Pylades. — The  Cho- 
rus sing  responsively:] 
I. 
Late  came  due  vengeance  on  the  sons  of  Pi'iam ; 

.Tust  forfeit  of  sore  woe ; — 
Late  came  there,  too,  to  Agamemnon's  house 

Twin  lions,  two-fold  Death. 
The  exile  who  obeyed  the  Pythian  hest 

Hath  gained  his  full  desire. 
Sped  on  his  way  by  counsel  of  the  Grods.  .  .  . 

III. 
And  so  on  one  who  loves  the  war  of  guile 

Revenge  came  subtle-souled; 
And  in  the  strife  of  hands  the  Child  of  Zeus 

In  very  deed  gave  help. 
(We  mortals  call  her  Vengeance,  hitting  well 

The  meetest  name  for  her,) 
Breathing  destroying  wrath  against  her  foes. 

TV. 

She  it  is  whom  Loxia  summons  now. 
Who  dwelletb  in  Parnassia's  cavern  vast, 

Calling  on  Her  who  still 

Is  guileful  without  guile. 
Halting  of  foot,  and  tarrying  over-long: 
The  will  of  Gods  is  strangely  overruled; 

It  may  not  help  the  vile ; 
'Tis  meet  to  adore  the  Power  that  rules  in  Heaven: 

At  last  we  see  the  Light. 
— The  Libation-Jjearers,  Transl.  of  Plumptre. 


MSOP.  133 

^SOP,  a  fabulist,  said  to  have  been  born  in 
Phrygia,  about  620  B.C.  It  is  said  that  he  was 
brought  to  Athens  while  young,  and  sold  as 
a  slave  to  ladnion  of  Samos,  who  gave  him 
his  freedom.  Croesus,  King  of  Lydia,  sub 
sequently  invited  him  to  his  court,  employed 
him  in  positions  of  trust ;  finally  as  his  am- 
bassador at  Delphi,  where  he  w^as  charged 
with  sacrilege,  and  was  put  to  death  by  being 
thrown  from  a  precipice.  He  visited  Athens 
during  the  sovereignty  of  Pisistratus,  w^here 
he  wrote  the  Fable  of  Jnjyiter  and  the 
Frogs.  His  genuine  works  are  supposed  to 
have  perished ;  the  collection  of  fables  which 
go  under  his  name  being  either  imitations,  or 
entirely  spurious  productions  of  a  later  age. 
So  great,  however,  was  his  reputation  that  a 
statue  of  him  was  executed  by  the  famous 
sculptor,  Lysippus.  The  current  story  that 
he  was  a  misshapen  dwarf,  is  wholly  fictitious. 
He  stands,  therefore,  as  a  representative  of  a 
class  of  writers,  i-ather  than  as  a  distinct  in- 
dividual. 

JUPITER   AND   THE   FROGS. 

The  Frogs,  grieved  at  having  no  established 
rnler,  sent  ambassadors  to  Jupiter,  entreating  for 
a  King.  He,  perceiving  their  simplicity,  cast 
down  a  huge  log  into  the  pond.  The  Frogs,  terri- 
fied at  the  splash  occasioned  by  its  fall,  hid  them- 
selves in  the  depths  of  the  pool.  But  no  sooner 
did  they  perceive  that  the  log  continued  motion- 
less, than  they  swam  again  to  the  top  of  the 
water,  dismissed  their  fears,  and  came  so  to  de- 
spise it  as  to  climb  up,  and  to  squat  iipon  it. 
After  soine  time  they  began  to  think  themselves 
ill-treated  in  the  appointment  of  so  inert  a  ruler, 
and  sent  a  second  deputation  to  Jupiter  to  pray 
that  he  would  set  over  them  another  sovereign. 
He  then  gave  them  an  Eel  to  govern  them.  When 
the  Frogs  discovered  his  easy  good-nature,  they 
yet  a  third  time  sent  to  Jupiter  to  beg  that  he 
would  once  more  choose  for  tliem  another  King. 


VM  .ESOP. 

Jupiter,  displeased  at  their  complaints,  sent  a 
Heron,  who  preyed  npon  the  Frogs  day  by  day, 
till  there  were  none  left  to  croak  upon  the  pond. — 
Transl.  o/Towxsexd. 

THE   TKEES   AND   THE   AXE. 

A  man  came  into  the  forest,  and  made  a  peti- 
tion to  the  Trees  to  provide  him  a  handle  for  his 
axe.  The  Trees  consented  to  his  request,  and 
•i'ave  him  a  young-  ash-tree.  No  sooner  had  the 
man  fitted  from  it  a  new  handle  to  his  axe,  than 
he  began  to  use  it,  and  quickly  felled  with  his 
strokes  the  noblest  giants  of  the  forest.  An  old 
Oak,  lamenting  when  too  late  the  destruction  of 
his  companions,  said  to  a  neighboring  Cedar: 
"The  first  step  has  lost  us  all.  If  we  had  not 
given  up  the  rights  of  the  Ash,  we  might  yet  have 
retained  our  own  privileges,  and  have  stood  for 
ages."" — Transl.  of  Towxsend. 

THE   OLD   MAN   AND   DEATH. 

An  Old  Man  that  had  travelled  a  long  way  with 
a  great  bundle  of  faggots,  found  himself  so  weary 
that  he  flung  it  down,  and  called  upon  Death  to 
deliver  him  from  his  most  miserable  existence. 
Death  came  straightway  at  his  call,  and  asked 
him  what  he  wanted.  '"Pray,  good  Sir,"  said 
the  Old  Man,  "  just  do  me  the  favor  to  help  me  up 
with  my  bundle  of  faggots."' — Transl.  of  James. 

THE   BIRDS,   THE   BEASTS,    AND   THE   BAT. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  fierce  war  between 
the  Birds  and  the  Beasts.  For  a  long  time  the 
issue  of  the  contest  was  uncertain,  and  the  Bat, 
taking  advantage  of  his  ambiguous  nature — part 
Bird  and  part  Beast — kept  aloof,  and  remained 
neutral.  At  length,  wlien  the  Beasts  seemed  to 
be  getting  the  better  of  it,  tiie  Bat  joined  their 
forces,  and  appeai-ed  active  in  the  fight;  but  a  rally 
being  made  by  the  Birds,  which  proved  success- 
ful, the  Bat  was  found  at  the  end  of  the  day 
among  the  ranks  «f  the  winning  party.  A  peace 
being  speedily  concluded,  the  Bafs  conduct  was 
condemned  alike  by  both  parties;  and,  being  ac- 
knowledged by  neither,  and  so  excluded  by  the 


terms  of  the  truce,  he  was  obliged  to  skulk  off  as 
best  he  could ;  and  has  ever  since  lived  in  holes 
and  corners,  never  daring  to  show  his  face  except 
in  the  duskiness  of  twilight.— TransL  of  James. 

THE  BELLY  AND   THE  OTHER  MEMBERS. 

In  former  days  when  all  a  man's  limbs  did  not 
work  together  as  amicably  as  they  do  now,  but 
each  had  a  will  and  a  way  of  its  own,  the  Mem- 
bers began  to  find  fault  with  the  Belly  for  spend- 
ing an  idle,  luxurious  life,"while  they  were  wholly 
occupied  in  laboring  for  its  support,  and  minister- 
ing to  its  wants  and  pleasures.  So  they  entered 
into  a  conspiracy  to  cut  off  its  supplies  for  the  fu- 
ture. The  Hands  were  no  longer  to  carry  any 
food  to  the  Mouth,  nor  the  Mouth  to  receive  the 
food,  nor  the  Teeth  to  chew  it.  They  had  not 
long  persisted  in  this  course  of  starving  the  Belly 
into  subjection,  ere  they  all  began,  one  by  one,  to 
fail  and  flag,  and  the  whole  Body  to  pine  away. 
Then  the  Members  were  convinced  that  the  Belly 
also — cumbersome  and  useless  as  it  seemed — had 
an  important  function  of  its  own;  that  they  could 
no  more  do  without  it,  than  it  could  do  without 
them ;  and  that  if  they  would  have  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  Body  in  a  healthy  state,  they  must 
work  together,  each  in  his  proper  sphere,  for  the 
common  good  of  all. — Transl.  of  James. 

THE   FOX  AND   THE   HEDGEHOG. 

A  Fox,  swimming  across  a  very  rapid  river,  was 
carried  by  the  force  of  the  current  into  a  deep 
ravine,  where  he  lay  for  a  long  time  very  much 
bruised  and  sick,  and  unable  to  move.  A  swarm 
of  hungry  blood-sucking  Flies  settled  upon  him. 
A  Hedgehog,  passing  by,  compassionated  his  suf- 
ferings, and  inquired  if  he  should  drive  away  the 
Flies  that  were  tormenting  him.  *'  By  no  means," 
replied  the  Fox;  "pray,  do  not  molest  them."— 
"  How  is  that?"  said  the  Hedgehog;  "  do  you  not 
want  to  be  rid  of  them?"— "No,"  returned  the 
Fox;  "for  these  Flies  which  you  see  are  full  of 
blood,  and  sting  me  but  little;  and  if  you  rid  me 
of  these  which  are  already  satiated,  others  more 
hungry,  will  come  in  their  place,  and  will  drink 


131.5  .ESOP. 

up  all   the   blood  1  have   left." — Transl.  of  Towy- 

THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  ARKOW. 

An  Eagle  sat  on  a  lofty  rock,  watching  the 
movements  of  a  Hare  whom  he  sought  to  make 
his  prey.  An  Archer,  who  saw  him  from  a  place 
of  concealment,  took  an  accurate  aim,  and 
Avounded  him  mortally.  The  Eagle  gave  one  look 
at  the  arrow  that  had  entered  his  heart,  and  saw 
in  that  single  glance  that  its  feathers  had  been 
furnished  by  himself.  '•  It  is  a  double  grief  to 
me,"  he  exclaimed,  '•  that  I  should  perish  by  an 
arrow  featliercd  from  my  own  wings." — Transl.  oj 

TOWNSEND. 

THE   OAK   AND   THE   WOOD-CUTTEKS. 

The  AVood-cutters  cut  down  a  Mountain  Oak, 
.split  it  in  pieces,  making  wedges  of  its  own 
branches  for  dividing  the  trunk,  and  for  saving  of 
their  labor.  The  Oak  said,  with  a  sigh,  ""I  do 
not  care  about  the  blows  of  the  axe  aimed  at  my 
roots;  but  I  do  grieve  at  being  torn  in  pieces  by 
these  wedges  made  from  my  own  blanches." — 
Transl.  of  Toavnsend. 

THE  WOLF   AND   THE   LAMB. 

As  a  Wolf  was  lapping  at  the  head  of  a  running 
bi'ook,  he  spied  a  stray  Lamb  paddling  at  some 
distance  down  the  stream.  Having  made  up  his 
mind  to  seize  her,  he  bethought  himself  how  he 
might  justify  his  violence:  "Villain!"  said  he, 
running  up  to  her,  "how  dare  you  muddle  the 
water  that  I  am  drinking?  " — "  Indeed,"  said  the 
Lamb,  humbly,  "  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  disturb 
the  water,  since  it  runs  from  you  to  me,  not  from 
me  to  you." — "Be  that  as  it  may,"  replied  the 
wolf,  "  it  was  but  a  year  ago  that  you  called  me 
many  ill  names." — "  Oh,  Sir,"  saicl  the  lamb, 
trembling,  "  a  year  ago  I  was  not  born." — "  Well," 
replied  the  Wolf,  "if  it  was  not  you,  it  was  your 
father,  and  that  is  all  the  same ;  but  it  is  no  use 
trying  to  argue  me  out  of  my  supper."  And  with- 
out anothej-  word  he  fell  upon  the  poor  helpless 
Lamb,  and  tore  her  to  pieces. — Traiml.  0/ James. 


LOUIS  AGAS.SIZ.  137 

THE  SHEPHERD-BOY  AND  THE  WOLF. 

A  Shepherd-boy,  who  tended  his  flock  not  far 
from  a  village,  used  to  amuse  himself  at  times  in 
crying  out  "Wolf!"  Twice  or  thrice  his  trick 
succeeded.  The  whole  village  came  running  out 
to  his  assistance;  and  all  the  return  they  got  was 
to  be  laughed  at  for  their  pains.  At  last,  one  day 
the  Wolf  came  indeed ;  and  the  Boy  cried  out  in 
earnest.  But  the  neighbors,  supposing  him  to  be 
at  his  old  sport,  paid  no  heed  to  his  cries,  and  the 
Wolf  devoured  the  sheep.— So  the  Boy  learned, 
when  it  was  too  late,  that  Liars  are  not  believed 
even  when  they  tell  the  truth. — Trand.  of  James. 

THE  BUNDLE   OF   STICKS. 

A  Husbandman  who  had  a  quarrelsome  family, 
after  having  tried  in  vain  to  reconcile  them  by 
words,  thought  he  might  more  readily  prevail  by 
an  example.  So  he  called  his  sons  and  bade 
them  lay  a  bundle  of  sticks  before  him.  Then 
having  tied  them  up  into  a  faggot,  he  told  the 
lads,  one  after  another,  to  take  it  up  and  break  it. 
They  all  tried,  but  tried  in  vain.  Then,  untying 
the  faggot,  he  gave  them  the  sticks  to  break  one 
by  one.  This  they  did  with  the  greatest  ease. 
Then  said  the  father:  "Thus,  my  sons,  as  long 
as  you  remain  united,  you  are  a  match  for  all 
your  enemies;  but  differ  and  separate,  and  you 
are  undone. — Traiisl.  of  James. 

AGASSIZ,  Louis,  a  naturalist  and  author, 
born  in  Switzerland,  May  28,  1807,  died  in 
America,  Dec.  14,  1873.  Before  coming  to 
America,  in  1846,  he  had  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  researches  in  various  departments 
of  Natural  History  and  Science,  notably  by 
his  great  works,  Avritten  in  French,  upon  Fos- 
sil Fishes,  and  upon  the  Glaciers  of  the  Aljjs. 
Towards  the  close  of  1847  the  Scientific  School 
at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  was  founded  bj^  Mr. 
Abbott  Lawrence,  and  Agassiz  accepted  the 
position  of  Professor  of  Zoology  and  Geology 
in  the  new  institution.  He  subsequently  for 
a  short  time  held  the  chair  of  Comparative 


138  LOUIS  Af4ASSIZ. 

Anatomy  in  the  Medical  College  at  Charles- 
ton, S.  C ;  and  in  1868  was  appointed  a  non- 
resident Professor  in  Cornell  University,  at 
Ithaca,  N.  Y.  His  services  in  various  depart- 
ments of  Natural  History,  both  as  an  original 
observer  and  investigator,  and  as  a  lecturer 
and  author,  were  unequalled  by  those  of  any 
other  man  who  ever  lived ;  and  from  time  to 
time  he  made  long  journeys  and  voyages  for 
investigation  and  research.  These  travels  in- 
cluded the  whole  country  from  Lake  Superior 
to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  and  from  the  Atlantic 
Coast  to  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi.  In 
1865  he  took  charge  of  a  Scientific  Expedition, 
most  liberally  provided  for  by  a  merchant  of 
Boston,  to  explore  the  waters  of  Brazil.  A 
narrative  of  this  expedition  was  published, 
written  mainly  by  Mrs.  Agassiz.  He  subse- 
quently made  a  scientific  excursion  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains;  and  in  December,  1871, 
accompanied  by  several  other  men  of  science, 
he  set  out  on  a  voyage  around  Cape  Horn,  in 
the  U.  S.  Coast  Survey  Steamer  Hassler. 
The  results  of  this  voyage,  undertaken  for 
deep-sea  dredging,  were  of  great  importance 
in  the  study  of  oceanic  faunae. — The  influence 
of  Agassiz  upon  the  scientific  development  of 
the  United  States  was  profound  and  far-reach- 
ing. Joined  with  his  great  scientific  ability, 
he  had  the  faculty  of  communicating  the  re- 
sults of  his  investigations,  and  propounding 
his  theories,  in  an  attractive  form.  He  there- 
fore deservedly  holds  a  high  place  not  only 
in  Science,  but  also  in  Literature. 

THE  GROWTH  OF  CORAL  REEFS. 

A  Coral  Eeef  is  a  structure  built  up  fi'om  a  defi- 
nite depth  successively  and  gradually,  not  by  one 
kind  of  Coral,  but  by  a  great  variety  of  kinds  com- 
bining togetlier,  and  forming  by  their  joint  woi'k 
a  wail  which,  from  a  given  deptli.  may  end  in 
reaching  the  surface  of  the  water.     And  while  it 


LOUIS  AGASSIZ.  IS'J 

is  growing,  this  wall  is  all  the  time  changing  its 
builders.  It  is  not  one  kind  tliat  commences  and 
completes  the  structure  to  the  summit.  One  kind 
does  a  part  of  the  work,  and  then  ceases;  another 
kind  comes  in  and  continues  the  work  for  awhile, 
and  ceases  in  its  turn;  and  so  on  till  it  is  com- 
pleted. Here  we  have  a  slanting  shoie:  suppose 
at  six  hundred  feet  distance  from  the  shore  the 
depth  is  ten  or  twelve  fathoms.  It  will  he  a 
favorable  level  for  the  formation  of  a  succession 
of  reefs;  for  the  animals  which  begin  to  work 
live  at  that  depth.  They  commence  building  a 
wall  in  that  form:  steep  towards  the  ocean,  slant- 
ing gently  towards  the  shore,  rising  in  the  end  to 
the  level  of  the  water.  The  steei>ness  of  the  out- 
ward wall,  and  the  gentle  sloping  towards  the 
land,  are  the  result  of  those  fostering  influences 
which  accelerate  the  growth  of  the  reef  under 
conditions  which  are  most  favoiable  to  the  devel- 
opment of  different  corals.  .  .  . 

But  one  thing  must  be  remembered :  The  Raili- 
ates  which  Itegin  the  reef,  after  building  it  up  to 
a  certain  height,  necessarily  create  conditions 
that  are  unfavorable  to  their  growth.  The  condi- 
tion of  the  water  inside,  towards  the  land,  is  so 
altei'ed  that  the  first  set  of  Corals  can  no  longer 
prosper  there.  The  space  inside  becomes  almost 
an  inland  pool,  even  though  the  water  washes 
over  the  top  of  the  reef.  And  now  another  kind 
of  Coral  sets  in,  and  begins  to  build.  The  work 
goes  on,  but  not  so  i-apidly,  perhaps,  as  before. 
The  first  set  stops  at  a  certain  height,  the  second 
set  carries  it  up  higher  toward  the  surface.  The 
second  set  are  more  hardy,  and  require  less  of  the 
immediate  action  of  the  Sea  to  sustain  their 
growth.  But  there  are  still  other  kinds  which 
never  build  the  reef  itself;  namely,  those  which 
grow  under  its  shelter.  They  may  be  compared 
to  the  underljrush  of  the  forest,  which  does  not 
begin  until  the  forest  trees  have  reached  a  certain 
height.  So  we  have  the  reef-builders  and  the 
vuiderbrush.  And  then  a  third  set  of  reef-builders 
may  come  in,  and  bring  it  up  to  the  surface  of  the 
water;  and  after  they  have  grown,  the  underbrush 
tills  up  the  bottom  towards  the  land. 


UU  LOUIS  AGASSIZ. 

Now  comes  a  question  which,  for  a  length  of 
time,  was  one  of  the  most  perislexing  in  the  study 
of  these  animals :  Having  ascertained  that  differ- 
ent portions  of  the  reef,  at  different  depths,  arc 
built  by  different  species,  and  that  all  these  Corals 
are  immovably  attached  to  each  other,  the  ques- 
tion arises,  whence  did  these  new  Corals  come 
which  have  built  up  the  later  portions  of  the  reef  1' 
— On  examining  these  animals  we  find,  along  the 
portions  which  divide  the  internal  cavity,  bunches 
of  eggs.  They  have  long  been  known  as  such. 
But  what  was  not  known  is  the  fact  that  the 
young  which  are  hatched  from  these  eggs  arc  free, 
and  swim  in  the  water.  They  are  little  pear- 
shaped  bodies  surrounded  with  innumerable 
fringes  which  keep  them  revolving  in  the  water. 
They  move  about  at  will  until  they  find  a  proper 
resting-place,  where  they  fix  themselves  and  grow. 
Whenever  there  is  a  reef  which  has  grown  up  to 
the  level — say,  of  six  fathoms — where  the  second 
set  of  Corals  come  in,  there  will  be  found  these 
little  floating  animals,  which  subsequently  attacli 
themselves  to  the  reef  at  their  proper  level,  and 
grow.  Then  another  set  come  in,  in  the  same 
way,  and  so  build  up  the  reef.  The  succession  of 
these  different  species  of  animals  is  now  readily 
explained.  Each  one  of  these  little  young  animals 
undergoes  a  transformation  from  a  free  swimming- 
body  to  a  Polyp. — Graluuu  Lectures. 

METAMORPHOSES   OF   AXIMALS. 

Under  the  name  of  Metamorphoses  are  included 
those  changes  which  the  ])ody  of  an  animal  under- 
goes after  birth,  and  which  are  modifications,  in 
various  degrees  of  its  organization,  form,  and 
mode  of  life.  Such  changes  are  not  peculiar  to 
certain  classes,  as  has  been  so  long  sui)posed,  but 
are  common  to  all  animals  without  exception. 
Vegetables  also  inidergo  metamorphoses,  but  with 
this  essential  difference,  that  in  vegetables  the 
•  process  consists  in  an  addition  of  new  parts  to  the 
old  ones.  A  succession  of  leaves,  differing  from 
those  which  preceded  them,  comes  in  each  season; 
new  branches  and  roots  are  added  to  the  old  stem, 
and  woody  lavcrs  to  the  tiiuik. 


LUUIS  AGAISSIZ.  Ul 

In  animals  the  wliole  body  is  transi'oinicd ,  in 
such  a  manner  that  all  the  existing  parts  contrib- 
ute to  the  formation  of  the  modilied  body.  The 
chrysalis  becomes  a  butterfly;  the  frog,  after  hav- 
ing been  herbivorous  during  its  tadpole  state,  be- 
comes carnivorous,  and  its  stomacli  is  adapted  to 
this  new  mode  of  life;  at  the  same  time,  instead 
of  breathing  by  gills,  it  becomes  an  air-breathing 
animal;  its  tail  and  gills  disappear,  lungs  and 
legs  are  formed ;  and  finally  it  lives  and  moves 
upon  the  bind. 

The  natvire.  the  duration,  and  importance  of 
nietamori)hoses,  and  also  the  epoch  at  which  they 
take  place,  are  infinitely  varied.  The  most  strik- 
ing changes  naturally  presenting  themselves  to 
the  mind,  when  we  speak  of  metamorphoses,  arc 
those  occurring  in  insects.  Not  merely  is  there  a 
change  of  physiognomy  and  form  observable,  or 
an  organ  more  or  less  formed,  but  their  whole 
organization  is  modified.  The  animal  enters  into 
Hew  relations  with  the  external  world,  while  at 
the  same  time  new  instincts  are  imparted  to  it. 
It  has  lived  in  water,  and  respired  by  gills;  it  is 
now  furnished  with  trachce,  and  breathes  air. 
It  passes  by  with  indifference  objects  which  were 
before  attractive;  and  its  new  instincts  prompt  it 
to  seek  conditions  which  would  have  been  most 
pernicious  during  its  former  period  of  life.  All 
tliese  changes  ai'e  brought  about  without  destroy- 
ing the  individuality  of  the  animal.  The  mosquito, 
which  to-day  haunts  us  with  its  shrill  trumpet, 
and  pierces  us  tor  our  blood,  is  the  same  animal 
that  a  few  days  ago  lived  obscure  and  unregarded 
in  stagnant  water,  under  the  guise  of  a  little 
woi'm.  .  .  . 

The  different  external  forms  which  an  insect 
may  assume  is  well  illustrated  by  the  canker- 
worm.  Its  eggs  arc  laid  upon  posts  and  fences, 
or  upon  the  branches  of  the  apple,  elm,  and  other 
trees.  They  are  hatched  about  the  time  the  tender 
leaves  of  these  trees  begin  to  unfold.  The  cater- 
pillar feeds  on  the  leaves,  and  attains  the  full 
growth  at  the  end  of  about  four  weeks,  being  then 
not  quite  an  inch  in  length.  It  then  descends  into 
the  ground,  and  enters  the  earth  lo  the  depth  of 


142  LOUIS  AGASSIZ. 

four  or  five  inches,  and  having  excavated  a  sort  of 
cell,  is  soon  changed  into  a  chrysalis  or  nymph. 
At  the  usual  time  in  the  Spring  it  bursts  its  skin, 
and  appears  in  its  perfect  state  in  the  form  of  a 
moth.  In  this  species,  however,  only  the  male 
has  wings.  The  perfect  insects  soon  pair;  the 
female  crawls  up  a  tree,  and,  having  deposited  her 
eggs,  dies. 

Transformations  no  less  remarkable  are  observed 
among  the  Crustacea.  The  Antifa,  like  all  Crus- 
tacea, is  reproduced  by  eggs.  From  these  eggs 
little  animals  issue,  which  have  not  the  slightest 
resemblance  to  the  parent.  They  have  an  elon- 
gated form,  a  pair  of  tentacles,  and  four  legs,  with 
which  they  swim  freely  in  the  water.  Their  free- 
dom, however,  is  of  but  short  duration.  The 
little  animal  soon  attaches  itself  by  means  of  its 
tentacles — having  previously  become  covered  with 
a  transparent  shell,  thi-ough  which  the  outlines  of 
the  body,  and  also  a  very  distinct  eye,  arc  easily 
distinguishable.  It  is  plainly  seen  that  the  ante- 
rior portion  of  the  animal  has  become  considera- 
bly enlarged;  subsequently  the  shell  becomes 
completed,  and  the  animal  casts  its  skin,  losing 
with  it  both  its  eyes  and  its  tentacles.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  thick  membrane  lining  the  shell, 
pushes  out,  and  forms  a  stem,  by  means  of  which 
the  animal  fixes  itself  to  immersed  bodies,  after 
the  loss  of  its  tentacles.  The  stem  gradually  en- 
larges, and  the  animal  soon  acquires  a  definite 
shape.  There  is,  consequently,  not  only  a  change 
of  organization  in  the  course  of  the  metamorpho- 
ses, but  also  a  change  of  faculties  and  mode  of 
life.  The  animal,  at  first  free,  becomes  fixed; 
and  its  adhesion  is  effected  by  totally  different 
organs  at  different  periods  of  life:  first  by  means 
of  tentacles,  which  were  temporary  organs;  and 
afterwards  by  means  of  a  fleshy  stem,  especially 
developed  for  that  purpose. 

The  metamorphoses  of  the  Mollusca,  though 
less  striking,  are  not  less  worthy  of  notice.  Thus, 
the  oyster  is  free  when  young,  like  the  clam,  and 
most  other  shell-fishes.  Others,  which  are  at 
first  attached  or  suspended  to  the  gills  of  the 
motlicr.    afterwards   become    free.     Some    naked 


LOUIS  AGASSIZ.  143 

gasteropods  are  born  with  a  shell,  which  they  part 
with  shortly  after  leaving  the  egg. 

The  study  of  metamorphoses  is  therefore  of  the 
utmost  imi)ortance  for  understanding  the  real 
affinities  of  animals,  very  different  in  appearance; 
as  is  readily  shown  by  the  following  instances: 
The  butterfly  and  the  earth-worm  seem,  at  the 
first  glance,  to  have  no  i-elation  whatever.  They 
differ  in  their  organization  no  less  than  in  their 
outward  appearance.  But  on  comparing  the  cater- 
pillar and  the  worm,  these  two  animals  are  seen 
closely  to  resemble  each  other.  The  analogy, 
however,  is  only  transient;  it  lasts  only  during  the 
larva  state  of  the  caterpillar,  and  is  effaced  as  it 
passes  to  the  chrysalis  and  butterfly  conditions: 
the  latter  becoming  a  more  and  more  perfect  ani- 
mal, whilst  the  worm  remains  in  its  inferior 
state.  .  .  . 

Similar  instances  are  furnished  by  animals  be- 
longing to  all  types  of  the  animal  kingdom.  .  .  . 
In  the  type  of  the  Vertebrata  the  considerations 
drawn  from  metamorphoses  acquire  still  greater 
importance  in  regard  to  classification.  The  stur- 
geon and  the  white-fish  are  two  very  different 
fishes;  yet,  taking  into  consideration  their  exter- 
nal form  and  bearing  merely,  it  might  be  ques- 
tioned which  of  the  two  should  take  the  highest 
rank;  whereas  the  doubt  is  very  easily  resolved 
by  an  examination  of  their  anatomical  structure. 
The  white-fish  has  a  skeleton,  and  moreover  a 
vertebral  column  composed  of  firm  bone.  The 
sturgeon,  on  the  contrary,  has  no  bone  in  the 
vertebral  column  except  the  spines,  or  apophyses 
of  the  vertebrae ;  the  middle  part  or  body  of  the 
vertebra  is  cartilaginous.  If,  however,  we  observe 
the  young  white-fish  just  after  it  has  issued  from 
the  egg,  the  contrast  will  be  less  striking.  At  this 
period  the  vertebrje  are  cartilaginous,  like  thoso 
of  the  sturgeon,  its  mouth  is  also  transverse,  and 
its  tail  undivided.  At  that  period  the  white-fish 
and  the  sturgeon  are  much  more  alike.  But  this 
similarity  is  only  transient.  As  the  white-fish 
grows  its  vertebrae  become  ossified,  and  its  resem- 
blance to  the  sturgeon  is  comparatively  slight.  An 
the  sturgeon  has   no   such   transfnrniiition    of  the 


144  LOUIS  AGASSIZ. 

vertebrae,  and  is  in  some  sense  arrested  in  its  de- 
velopment, while  the  white-fish  undergoes  subse- 
quent transformation,  we  conclude  that,  compared 
with  the  white-fish,  it  is  really  inferior  in  rank.  .  .  . 

Nevertheless,  the  metamorphoses  which  occur  in 
animals  after  birth  will,  in  many  instances  present 
but  ti'ifling  modifications  of  the  relative  rank 
of  animals,  compared  with  those  which  may  be  de- 
rived from  the  study  of  changes  previous  to  that 
period;  as  there  are  many  animals  which  undergo 
no  changes  of  great  importance  after  their  escape 
from  the  egg,  and  occupy,  nevertheless,  a  high 
rank  in  the  zoological  series:  as,  for  example, 
birds  and  mammals.  The  question  is,  whether 
such  animals  are  developed  according  to  different 
plans,  or  whether  their  peculiarity  in  that  respect 
is  merely  apparent.  To  answer  this  question,  let 
us  go  back  to  the  period  anterior  to  birth,  and  see 
if  some  parallel  may  not  be  made  out  between  the 
embryonic  changes  of  these  animals,  and  the 
metamorphoses  which  take  place  subsequently  to 
birth  in  others. 

AVe  have  already  shown  that  embryonic  develop- 
ment consists  in  a  seiies  of  transfonnations;  the 
young  animal  enclosed  in  the  egg  differing  in  each 
period  of  its  development  from  what  it  was  be- 
fore. But  because  these  transformations  precede 
birth,  and  are  not  therefore  generally  observed, 
they  are  not  less  important.  To  be  satisfied  that 
these  transformations  are  in  every  respect  similar 
to  those  which  follow  birth,  we  have  only  to  com- 
pare the  changes  which  immediately  precede  birth 
with  those  which  immediately  follow  it,  and  we 
shall  readily  perceive  that  the  latter  are  simply  a 
continriation  of  the  former,  till  all  ai-e  completed. 

The  young  Avhite-fish,  as  we  have  seen,  is  far 
from  having  acquired  its  complete  development 
when  born;  much  remains  to  be  changed  before 
its  development  is  complete.  But  the  fact  that 
it  has  been  born  does  not  prevent  its  future  evolu- 
tion, which  goes  on  without  interruption.  Similar 
inferences  may  be  drawn  from  the  development 
of  the  chick.  The  only  difference  is  that  the 
young  chicken  is  born  in  a  more  mature  state;  the 
most    important    transformations     having    taken 


I.OITLS  A(;ASSIZ.  14') 

place  durinp;  the  embryonic  period,  wliile  those  to 
be  undergone  after  birth  are  less  considerable, 
though  they  complete  the  process  begun  in  the 
embryo. 

-  In  certain  mammals,  known  under  tlie  name  of 
Marsupials  (the  opossum  and  kangaroo),  the  link 
between  the  transformations  which  take  place  be- 
fore birth,  and  those  occurring  at  a  later  period, 
is  especially  remarkable.  These  animals  are 
brought  into  the  world  so  weak  and  undeveloped 
that  they  have  to  undergo  a  second  gestation,  in  a 
pouch  with  which  the  mother  is  furnished;  and 
in  which  the  young  remain,  each  one  fixed  to  a 
teat,  until  they  are  entirely  developed.  Even  those 
animals  which  are  born  nearest  to  the  complete 
states  undergo,  nevertheless,  embryonic  transfor- 
mations. Ruminants  acquire  the  horns,  and  the 
lion  his  mane.  Most  mammals,  at  their  birth, 
are  destitute  of  teeth,  and  incapable  of  using  their 
limbs;  and  all  are  dependent  on  the  mother,  and 
the  milk  secreted  by  her,  until  the  stomach  is 
capable  of  digesting  other  aliment. 

If  it  be  thus  shown  that  the  transformations 
which  take  place  in  the  embryo  are  of  the  same 
nature  and  of  the  same  importance  as  those  which 
occur  afterwards,  the  circumstance  that  some 
precede  and  others  succeed  birth  cannot  mark  any 
radical  difference  between  them.  Both  ai-e  pro- 
cesses of  the  life  of  the  individual.  Now,  as  life 
does  not  commence  at  birth,  but  goes  still  further 
back,  it  is  quite  clear  that  the  modifications  which 
supervene  dunng  the  former  period  are  essentially 
the  same  as  the  later  ones.  And  hence  that  meta- 
morphoses, far  from  being  exceptional  in  the  case 
of  insects,  are  one  of  the  general  features  of  the 
animal  kingdom.  We  are  therefore  perfectly  en- 
titled to  say  that  all  animals,  without  exception, 
undergo  metamorphoses.  .  .  . 

It  is  only  by  connecting  the  two  kinds  of  trans- 
formation— namely  those  which  take  place  before 
and  those  after  birth — that  we  arc  furnished  with 
the  means  of  ascertaining  the  relative  perfection  of 
an  animal.  In  other  words,  these  transformations 
become,  under  such  circumstances,  a  natural  key 
to  the  gradation  of  types.  At  the  sane  time,  they 
10 


146  GRACE  AGUILAR. 

force  upon  us  the  conviction  that  there  is  an  im- 
mutable law  presiding  over  all  these  changes,  and 
regulating  them  in  a  peculiar  manner  to  each  ani- 
mal. .  .  .  From  the  facts  observed  in  the  study 
of  fossils,  we  may  conclude  that  the  oldest  fossjl 
fishes  did  not  pass  through  all  the  metamorphoses 
which  our  osseous  iishes  undergo;  and  conse- 
quently that  they  were  inferior  to  analogous  spe- 
cies of  the  present  epoch,  which  have  bony  verte- 
brae. Similar  considerations  apply  to  the  fossil 
Crustacea  and  to  the  fossil  echinoderms,  when 
compared  with  their  living  types;  and  it  will  prob- 
ably be  found  tru-^  of  all  classes  of  the  animal 
kingdom,  when  they  are  fully  studied  as  to  their 
geological  succession. — Outlines  of  Comparative 
Physiology. 

AGUILAR,  Grace,  an  English  writer, 
mainly  of  religious  fiction,  was  born  at  Hack- 
ney, near  London,  in  1816;  died  at  Frankfort- 
on-the-Main,  Germany,  in  1847.  She  was  of 
Spanish  Hebrew  descent,  and  remained  true 
to  the  faith  of  her  fathers.  She  became  deaf 
and  dumb  some  time  before  her  death,  and 
was  obliged  to  converse  with  her  fingers  in 
the  sign-language  used  by  deaf  mutes.  She 
wrote  The  Magic  Wreath,  a  small  volume  of 
poems;  Records  of  Israel ;  Jeicish  Faith,  its 
Consolations;  Records  of  Israel ;  Women  of 
Israel;  Vale  of  Cedars;  Days  of  Bruce; 
Wo7nan''s  Friendship;  Home  Scenes  and 
Heart  Studies ;  and  Home  Influence,  which  is 
the  most  popular  of  all  her  Avorks. 

MOTHER   AXD   DAUGHTER. 

"I  am  sui'e  I  cannot  play  a  note  now,"  said 
Emmeline,  "  it  will  be  no  use  trying." 

"  Emmeline,"  exclaimed  her  mother,  adding 
gravely,  "I  am  afraid  you  have  danced  too  much 
instead  of  not  enough." 

The  tone,  still  more  than  the  words,  was  enough. 
Poor  Emmeline  was  just  in  that  mood  when  tears 
are  quite  as  near  as  smiles:  her  own  petulance 
seemed   to  reproach  her   too.   and   she   suddenly 


(JRACE  AGUILAK.  147 

burst  into  tears.  Many  exclamations  of  sympathy 
and  condolence  burst  from  her  mother's  friends  : 
^-"  Poor  child!"  "She  has  over-tired  herself!" 
"  We  cannot  expect  her  to  play  now!  " — But  Mrs. 
Greville  saying,  with  a  smile,  that  her  little 
friend's  tears  were  always  the  very  lightest  April 
showers,  successfully  turned  the  attention  of 
many  from  her;  while  Mrs.  Hamilton,  taking  her 
hand  from  her  face,  merely  said,  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Do  not  make  me  more  ashamed  of  you.  What 
would  papa  think  if  he  were  to  see  you  now  ?  " 

Her  little  girl's  only  answer  was  to  bury  her  face 
still  more  closely  in  her  mother's  dress,  very  much 
as  if  she  would  like  to  hide  herself  entirely,  but 
on  Mrs.  Allan  saying,  very  kindly — 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear.  I  would 
not  have  asked  to  hear  you  play,  if  I  had  thought 
you  would  dislike  it  so  much.  1  dare  say  you  are 
very  tired,  and  so  think  you  will  not  succeed." 

She  raised  her  head  directly,  shook  back  the 
fair  ringlets  that  had  fallen  over  her  face,  and 
though  the  tears  were  still  on  her  cheeks  and 
filling  her  eyes,  she  said,  with  a  blending  of  child- 
ish shyness  and  yet  courageous  truth,  impossible 
to  be  described : 

"Xo,  ma'am,  I  am  not  too  tired  to  j)lay.  I  did 
not  cry  from  fatigue,  but  because  I  was  angry 
with  mamma  for  not  letting  me  dance  anymore; 
and  angry  with  myself  for  answering  her  so  pet- 
tishly; and  because — because — I  thouglit  she  was 
displeased — and  that  I  deserved  it." 

"  Then  come  and  redeem  your  character,"  was 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  only  notice  of  a  reply  that  actu- 
ally made  her  heart  throb  with  thankfulness  that 
her  lessons  of  truth  Avere  so  fully  understood  and 
practised  by  one  naturally  so  gentle  and  timid  as 
lierEmmeline;  while  Mrs.  Allan  knew  not  what 
to  answer,  from  a  feeling  of  involuntary  respect. 
It  would  have  been  so  easy  to  escape  a  disagreea- 
ble task  by  tacitly  allowing  that  she  was  too  tired 
to  play,  and  what  careful  training  must  it  have 
been  to  have  so  taught  truth. 

"  Mrs.  Allan  would  not  ask  you  before,  because 
she  knew  you  did  not  like  to  play  while  the  room 


148  LUCY  AIKIN. 

was  so  very  full ;  theref oie  ought  you  not  to  do 
your  very  best  to  oblige  her  ?  " 

Emmeline  looked  timidly  up  in  her  mother's 
face,  to  be  quite  svire  that  her  displeasure  had 
subsided,  as  her  words  seemed  to  denote;  and 
quite  satisfied,  her  tears  were  all  checked,  and 
taking  Mrs.  Allan's  offered  hand,  she  went  di- 
rectly to  the  music-room. — Home  Influence. 

AIKIN,  John,  an  English  literateur,  bom 
in  1747,  died  in  1823.  He  studied  medicine 
and  surgery,  but  finally  devoted  himself  to 
literary  labor.  The  entire  list  of  his  writings 
comprises  about  fifty  works.  The  best 
known  of  these  is  Evenings  at  Home,  in 
which  he  was  aided  by  his  sister  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld  (q.v.).  He  edited  at  different  times 
several  periodical  publications,  among  which 
are  the  Monthlij  Magazine  (1796-1807)  and 
Dodslei/s  Ann ual  Register  (1811-15).  He  was 
the  principal  writer  of  a  General  Biography, 
which  occupied  most  of  his  time  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  and  extended  to  ten  quarto 
volumes  (1799-1815),  which  Mr.  Roscoe  praises 
as  "a  w-ork  which  does  not  implicitly  adopt 
prescriptive  errors,  but  evinces  a  sound  judg- 
ment, a  manly  freedom  of  sentiment,  and  a 
correct  taste."  Towards  the  end  of  his  life 
he  undertook  the  compilation  of  the  Select 
Works  of  the  British  Poets,  from  Johnson  to 
Beattie,  w-hich  was  afterwards  carried  on  by 
others,  though  continuing  to  bear  his  name. 
The  Evenings  at  Home,  still  holds  a  place  in 
our  literature,  while  the  more  laborious 
works  which  he  produced  or  compiled  have 
been  superseded  by  others.  Nevertheless, 
the  name  of  Dr.  John  Aikin  deserves  to  re- 
tain a  place  in  the  History  of  English  Litera- 
ture. 

AIKIN,  Lucy,  daughter  of  Dr.  John  Aikin. 
mentioned  above,  and  niece  of  Mrs.  Barbauld, 
hereafter  to  be  spoken  of.  was  born  in  1781. 


WILLIAM  llAliKlSOX  AiMJ^WOlM'H.     ll'J 

and  died  in  1864.  She  began  her  career  of 
authorship  while  at  an  early  age,  writing  sev- 
eral books  for  the  young,  of  which  only  the 
titles  are  now  remembered.  She  soon  tiu-ned 
her  work  towards  historical  subjects  upon  a 
somewhat  large  scale,  putting  forth  Mevwirti 
of  the  Court  of  Queen  Elizabeth  (1818) ;  Me- 
moirs of  the  Court  of  James  I.  (1822),  which 
the  Edinhurgh  Review  chBX?^iiievizQ&  as  "an 
admirable  historical  work,  neai-ly  as  enter- 
taining as  a  novel,  and  far  more  instructive 
than  most  histories;"  Memoirs  of  the  Court 
of  Charles  I.  (1833) ;  and  the  Life  of  Addison 
(1843).  This  last  work  is  especially  notable 
from  the  fact  that  it  furnished  at  least  the 
text  for  one  of  Macaulay's  most  brilliant  bio- 
graphico-literary  essays,  that  upon  the  Life 
of  Joseph  Addison,  in  which  he  pays  a  well 
deserved  tribute  to  the  general  merits  of  the 
work  of  Lucy  Aikin,  which  had  just  ap- 
peared. 

AINSWORTH,  William  Haruison,  an 
English  novelist,  born  at  Manchester,  Feb.  4, 
1805,  died  Jan.  3,  1882.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
solicitor,  and  was  designed  for  the  legal  pro- 
fession ;  but  while  quite  young  embraced  the 
profession  of  literature;  and  acquired  great 
notoriety  as  the  writer  of  sensational  novels, 
founded  mainly  upon  historical  or  semi-his- 
torical themes.  He  was  for  some  time  the 
editor  of  Bentley's  Miseellany,  and  about  1842 
started  Ainsivorth's  Magazine,  a  periodical 
which  he  conducted  for  many  years,  and  in 
which  most  of  his  writings  originally  ap- 
peared. Among  the  best-known  of  his  tales, 
which  gained  a  great,  though  not  a  wholl\- 
reputable  popidarity,  are  John  Cheverton 
(1825),  which  was  praised  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  Rookivood,  Crichton,  Jack  Sheppard, 
The  Tower  of  London,  Old  St.  Raids,  Wind- 
sor Casfle,   St.  James's  Ralavc,    The  Lanea- 


150  THOMAS  AIRU. 

shire  Witches.  The  Star  Chamber.  The  Flitch 
of  Bacon,  The  Spanish  Match,  John  Laic, 
the  Projector,  Constable  Bourbon,  Old  Court, 
Merrie  England,  Hilary  St.  Ives,  Middleton 
Pomphret,  and  the  League  of  Latham,  the 
last  being  issued  in  1876 ;  so  that  Mr.  Ains- 
worth's  career  as  a  popular  no\'elist  extended 
over  more  than  half  a  century ;  and  the  works 
of  few  of  his  contemporaries  enjoyed  so  wide 
a  popularity  among  the  less  cultivated  class 
of  readers. 

AIRD,  Thomas,  a  Scottish  literateur,  born 
Aug.  28,  1802,  died  April  25,  1876.  He  was 
educated  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh ;  and 
Avas  for  many  years  editor  of  the  Dumfries 
Herald.  Besides  a  volume  of  highly  imagina- 
tive poems,  most  of  which  first  appeared  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  he  published  several 
volumes  of  prose  sketches. 

A  VISION  OF  THE   ifVIL   sPUUT: 

Beyond  the  North  where  Ural  hills  from  polar 
teiiii^ests  run. 

A  glow  went  forth  at  midnight  hour  as  of  un- 
wonted sun. 

Upon  the  North,  at  midnight  hour  a  mighty  noise 
was  heard. 

As  if  with  all  his  trampling  waves  the  Ocean  were 
unbarred: 

And  high  a  grizzly  Terror  hung  upstarting  from 
below. 

Like  fiery  arrow  shot  aloft  from  some  unmeasured 
bow. 

"Twas  not  the  obedient  Seraph's  form  tli;it  burns 
before  the  Throne, 

Whose  feathers  are  the  pointed  flames  that  trem- 
ble to  be  gone : 

With  twists  of  faded  glory  mixed,  grim  shadows 
wove  his  wing; 

An  aspect  like  the  hurrying  storm  iirucl;iin)ed  the 
Infernal  Kinc 


THOMAS  AIRD.  151 

And  up  he  went,  from  native  might,  or  holy  suf- 
ferance given, 

As  if  to  strike  the  Starry  boss  of  the  high  and 
vaulted  heaven. 

Aloft  he  turned  in  middle  air,  like  falcon  for  his 
prey, 

And  bowed  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven  as  if  to  flee 
away; 

Till  broke  a  cloud — a  phantom  host,  like  glimpses 
of  a  dream. 

Sowing  the  Syrian  wilderness  with  many  a  restless 
gleam : 

He  knew  the  flowing  chivalry,  the  swart  and  tur- 
baned  train, 

That  far  had  pushed  the  Moslem  faith,  and  peo- 
pled well  his  reign. 

With  stooping  pinion  that  outflew  the  Prophet's 

winged  steed. 
In  pride  throughout  the  desert  bounds  he  led  the 

phantom  speed; 
But  prouder  yet  he  turned  alone,  and  stood  on 

Tabor  hill. 
With  scorn  as  if  the  Arab  swords  had  little  helped 

his  will : 
With  scorn  he  looked  to  west  away,  and  left  their 

train  to  die. 
Like  a  thing  that  had  awaked  to  life   from   the 

gleaming  of  his  eye. 

What  hill  is  like  to  Tabor  hill  in  beauty  and   in 

fame? 
There  in  the  sad  days   of  his   flesh,  o'er  Christ  a 

glory  came ; 
And  light  outflowed  Him  like  a  sea,  and   raised 

His  shining  brow, 
And  the  voice  went  forth  that  bade  all  worlds   to 

God's  Beloved  bow. 
One   thought  of   this   came   o'er   the   Fiend,  and 

raised  his  startled  form. 
And  he  drew  up  his  swelling  skirts,  as  if  to  meet 

the  storm. 


152  THOMAS  AIRD. 

With  wing  that  stripped  the  dews  and  birds  from 
off  the  boughs  of  Night, 

Down  over  Tabor's  trees  he  whirled  his  fierce  dis- 
tempered flight; 

And  westward  o'er  the  shadowy  earth  he  tracked 
his  earnest  way, 

Till  o'er  him  shone  the  utmost  stars  that  hem  the 
skirts  of  day; 

Then  higher  'neath  the  sun  he  flew  above  all  mor- 
tal ken ; 

Yet  looked  what  he  might  see  on  earth  to  raise 
his  pride  again. 

He  saw  a  form  of  xVfrica  low  sitting  in  the  dust. 
The    feet    were     chained,    and    sorrow    thrilled 

throughout  the  sable  bust. —  , 

The  Idol,  and  the  idol's  Priest  lie  hailed  upon  the 

earth,  .  ' 

And  every  Slavery  that  brings  wild  passions  to  the 

birth. 
All  forms  of  human  wickedness  were  pillars  of  liis 

fame. 
All  sounds  of  human  misery  his  kingdom's  loud 

acclaim. 

Exulting  o'er  the  rounded   earth   again   he  rode 

with  night, 
Till  sailing  o'er  the   untrodden   top  of   Aksbeck 

high  and  white. 
He  closed  at  once  his  weary  wings,  and  touched 

the  shining  hill; 
For  less  his  flight  was  easy  Strength  tlian  proud 

unconquered  AVill : 
For  sin  had  dulled  his  native  strength,  and  spoilt 

the  holy  law 
Of   impulse,  whence  the  Archangel   forms  their 

earnest  being  draw. 

Here  upon  Mount  Aksbeck  the  Fiend  has  a 
vision,  or  series  of  visions.  He  is  phmged 
into  the  lake  of  God's  wrath,  and  Hes  fixed 
there  in  dull  passive  lethargy  for  ages,  as  it 
seemed  to  him.  At  length  a  neAv  vision  of 
heavenly  light  bursts  upon  him ;  and  a  voice 
promises  him  celestial  bliss  if  he  will  only 


MARK  AKENSIDE.  153 

boAV  himself  in  submission  to  the  Divine  Law 
of  Love.  He  rejects  the  proffer  with  proud 
disdain;  nerves  himself  for  one  mighty  ef- 
fort ;  and  soars  aloft  into  the  air,  resolved  to 
' '  storm  the  very  windows  of  Heaven,  and  stir 
their  calm  peace,  though  tenfold  hell  be 
given "  as  his  punishment: — 

Quick  as  the  levin,  whose  bkie  forks  lick  up  the 
life  of  man, 

Aloft  he  sprang,  and  through  his  wings  the  pierc- 
ing north-wind  ran ; 

Tilllike  a  glimmering  lamp  that's  lit  in  lazar- 
liouse  by  night. 

To  see  what  mean  the  sick  man's  cries,  and  set  his 
head  aright. 

Which  in  the  damp  and  sickly  air  the  sputtering 
shadows  mar,  • 

So  gathered  darkness  high  the  Fiend,  till  swal- 
lowed like  a  star. 

What  judgment  from  the  tempted  Heavens  shall 

on  his  head  go  forth? — 
Down  headlong  from  the  firmament  he  fell  upon 

the  north. 
The  Stars  are  up  untroubled  all  in  the  lofty  fields 

of  air: 
The  Will  of  God's  enough,  without  His  red  right 

arm  made  bare. 
'Twas  He  that  gave  the   Fiend  a  space,  to  prove 

him  still  the  same ; 
Then  bade  wild  Hell,    with    hideous  laugh,   be 

stirred  her  prey  to  claim. 
— From  the  Devil's  Dream  on  Mount  Aksbeck. 

AKENSIDE,  Mark,  an  English  poet,  born 
at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  Nov.  9,  1721 ;  died  in 
London,  June  23,  1770.  He  studied  at  the 
Grammar-School  at  New^castle,  and  the  Uni- 
versities of  Edinburgh  and  Leyden,  at  the 
latter  of  which  he  took  his  degree  of  Doctor 
of  Medicine  in  1744.  He  practised  his  pro- 
fession first  at  Northampton,  and  afterwards 
in  London.     His  poem  The  Plcasureti  of  the 


151  MARK  AKENblDE. 

Imagination  appeared  in  1744,  and  the  author 
received  a  pension  of  £300  a  year  from  Mr. 
Dyson,  to  be  paid  until  "his  practice  should 
support  him."'  Besides  his  Pleasures  of  the 
'Iviagination  he  wrote  a  number  of  Odes,  and 
minor  poems,  and  some  Medical  Essays. 

THE   DIVINE   IDEA  IN  THE   IJIAUIXATION. 

From    heaven    my   strains    begin;     from  heaven 

descends 
The  flame  of  genius  to  the  human  breast, 
And  love  and  beauty,  and  poetic  joy 
And  inspiration.     Ere  the  radiant  sun, 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  'mid  the  vault  of  night 
The  moon  suspended  her  serener  lamp ; 
Ere  mountains,  woods,  or  streams  adorned  the 

globe,  , 

Or  Wisdom  taught  the  sons  of  men  her  lore; 
Then  lived  the  Almighty  One:  then  deep  retired, 
In  his  unfathomed  essence,  viewed  the  forms. 
The  forms  eternal  of  created  things; 
The  radiant  sun,  the  moon's  nocturnal  lamp, 
The  mountains,  woods,  and  streams,  the  rolling 

globe. 
And  Wisdom's  mien  celestial.     From  the  first 
Of  days  on  them  his  love  divine  he  fixed. 
His  admiration:  till  in  time  complete. 
What  he  admired  and  loved,  his  vital  smile 
Unfolded  into  being.     Hence  the  breath 
Of  life  informing  each  organic  frame ; 
Hence     the    green    earth,   and     wild-resounding 

waves; 
Hence  light  and  shade  alternate;    warmth   and 

cold, 
And  clear  autumnal  skies,  and  vernal  showers, 
And  all  the  fair  variety  of  things. 

THE  IMAGINATION   IN  HISTORY. 

Look  then  abroad  through  nature  to  the  range 
Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres, 
W^heeling  unshaken  through  the  void  immense; 
And  speak,  O  man !  does  this  capacious  scene 
With  half  that  kindling  majesty  dilate 
Thy  strong  conceptions  as  when  Brutus  rose 


MARK  AKEXSIDK.  15.i 

Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Caesar's  fate, 
Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots ;  and  his  arm 
Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove, 
When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  called  aloud 
On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel, 
And  bade  the  Father  of  his  Country  hail! 
For  lol  the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust. 
And  Rome  again  is  free ! 

WEALTH   OF    THE   IMAGJNATIOK. 

Oh !  blest  of  heaven,  whom  not  the  languid  songs 

Of  Luxury,  the  siren,  nor  the  bribes 

Of  sordid  wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 

Of  pageant  honor  can  seduce  to  leave 

Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the  store 

Of  Nature  fair  Imagination  culls 

To  charm  the  enlivened  soul ! 

What  though  not  all 
Of  mortal  offspi'ing  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life ;  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state ; 
Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just. 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp. 
The  rural  honors  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 
The  breathing  marbles  and  the  sculptured  gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim, 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys. 

For  him  the  Spring 
Distills  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  germ 
its  lucid  leaves  unfolds;  for  him  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 
And  loves  unf  elt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure  unreproved. 

Nor  thence  partakes 
Fi-esh  pleasure  only:  for  the  attentive  mind, 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 


156  MARK  AKEXSIDE. 

Becomes  herself  liarmonious.     Wont  so  oft 

In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 

Of  sacred  Order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 

To  find  a  kindred  order;  to  exert 

Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair-inspired  delight.     Her  tempered  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

But  if  to  ampler  prospects — if  to  gaze 

On  Nature's  form,  where  negligent  of  all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  Eternal  Majesty  that  weighed 

The  world's  foundations — if  to  these  the  mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye,  then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler. 

Would  the  forms 
Of  servile  Custom  cramp  her  generous  powers  ? 
Would  sordid  Policies,  the  barbarous  growth 
Of  Ignorance  and  Rapine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear  ? — 
Lo!  she  appeals  to  Nature;  to  the  winds 
And  rolling  waves,  the  sun's  unwearied  course, 
The  elements  and  seasons: — All  declare 
For  what  the  Eternal  Maker  has  ordained 
The  powers  of  man.     We  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine;   He  tells  the  heart 
He  meant,  He  made  us  to  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves:— the  general  orb 
Of  Life  and  Being;  to  be  great  like  Him, 
Beneficent  and  active.     Thus  the  men 
Whom  Nature's  works  can  charm,  with  God  Him- 
self 
Hold  converse;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day, 
With  His  conceptions;  act  upon  His  plan; 
And  form  to  His  the  relisli  of  their  souls. 
—  Plpasitrpf!  of  the  Imii(;iu((tinn. 

Akenside  wrote  numerous  Odes,  Inscrip- 
tions, and  Occasional  Poems,  some  of  whieli 
possess  considerable  merit ;  but  most  of  them 
are  upon  mere  temporary  and  local  themes. 
One  of  the  best  of  his  Odes  is  that 


MARK  AKEXSIDK.  1 

ON  Tin;  rsK  of  poetfiy. 
Not  for  themselves  did  human  kind 
Contrive  tlie  parts  by  Heaven  assigned 

On  life's  wide  scene  to  play. 
Not  Scipio's  force  nor  Caisar's  skill 
Can  conquer  Glory's  arduous  hill 

If  Fortune  close  the  way. 

Yet  still  the  self-dependino-  soul. 
Though  last  and  least  on  Fortune's  roll, 

His  pi'oper  sphere  commands; 
And  knows  what  Nature's  seal  bestowed, 
And  sees,  before  the  throne  of  God 

The  rank  in  which  he  stands. 

Who  trained  by  laws  the  future  aj^e, 
"Who  rescued  nations  from  the  ra^e 

Of  partial,  factious  power. 
My  heart  with  distant  homage  views; 
Content  if  thou,  Celestial  Muse, 

Didst  rule  my  natal  hour. 

Not  far  beneath  the  Hero's  feet, 
Nor  from  the  Legislator's  seat, 

Stands  far  remote  the  Bard. 
Though  not  with  public  terrors  crowned, 
Yet  wider  shall  his  rule  le  found, 

More  lasting  his  awnrd. 

Lycurgus  fashioned  Sparta's  fame. 
And  Pompey  to  the  Roman  name 

Gave  universal  sway: 
Where  are  they  ? — Homer's  reverend  page, 
Holds  empire  to  the  thirtieth  age. 

And  tongues  and  climes  obey. 

And  thus  when  William's  acts  divine 
No  longer  shall  from  Bourbon's  line 

Draw  one  vindictive  vow ; 
When  Sydney  shall  with  Cato  rest. 
And  Russel  move  the  patriot's  breast 

No  more  than  Brutus  now ; 

Yet  then  shall  Shakspeare's  powerful  art 
O'er  every  passi(m,  every  heart. 
Confirm  his  awful  throne: 


158  I.UIGI  ALAMANI. 

Tyrants  shall  bow  before  his  laws ; 
And  Freedom's,  Glory's,  Virtue's  cause, 
Their  dread  assertor  own. 

Among  the  best  of  Akenside's  Inscriptions 
are  the  two  following: 

FOK    A  COLUMN   AT   RUNKIMEDE, 

Thou,  who  the  verdant  plain  dost  traverse  here, 
While  Thames  among  his  willows  from  thy  view 
Retires:  O  Stranger!  stay  thee,  and  the  scene 
Around  contemplate  well.     This  is  the  place 
AYliere  England's  ancient  barons,  clad  in  arms, 
And  stern  with  conquest,  from  their  tyrant  King — 
Then  rendered  tame — did  challenge  and  secure 
The  charter  of  thy  freedom.     Pass  not  on 
Till  thou  hast  blessed  their  memory,  and  paid 
Those  thanks  which  God  appointed  the  rewaid 
Of  Public  Virtue.     And  if  chance  thy  home   ^ 
Salute  thee  with  a  father's  honored  name, 
Go,  call  their  sons:  instruct  them  what  a  debt 
Tliey  owe  their  ancestors;  and  make  them  swear 
To  pay  it  by  transmitting  down  entire 
Those  sacred  rights  to  which  themselves  were  born. 

FOR   A   STATUE   OF   CHAUCER. 

Such  was  old  Chaucer:  Such  the  placid  mien 
Of  him  who  fi)-st  with  harmony  informed 
The  language  of  our  fathers.     Here  he  dwelt 
For  many  a  cheerful  day.     These  ancient  walls 
Have  often  heard  him,  while  his  legends  blithe 
He  sang:  of  love  or  knighthood,  or  the  wiles 
Of  homely  life ;  tlirough  each  estate  and  age. 
The  fashions  and  the  follies  of  the  world 
With    cunning   hand    portraying.      Thougli    per- 
chance 
From  Blenheim's  towers,    O   Stranger,  thou  art 

come, 
Glowing  with  Churchill's  trophies;  yet  in  vain 
Dost  thou  applaud  them,  if  thy  breast  be  cold 
To  him,  this  other  hero ;  who  in  times 
Dark  and  untaught,  began  with  charming  vei'se 
To  tame  the  rudeness  of  his  native  land. 

ALAMANI,  LuiGi,  an  Italian  poet,  born  at 
Florence,   in  1495 :  died  at  Aniboise.  France, 


BALTAZAK  DE  ALCAZAIJ.  15'J 

in  1556.  He  was  of  a  noble  Florentine  family, 
and  took  part  in  the  troubled  politics  of  his 
time.  Having  been  driven  into  exile  by  the 
hostile  party,  he  took  refuge  in  France,  where 
he  was  favorably  received  by  the  Kings  Fran- 
cis I.  and  Henry  II.,  by  both  of  whom  he 
was  entrusted  with  impoi'tant  political  affairs. 
His  works  comprise  almost  every  species  of 
verse.  Among  them  are  two  epic  poems,  a 
tragedy,  a  didactic  poem,  lyrics,  satires, 
eclogues,  epigi-ams,  and  sonnets,  all  of  which 
display  grace  of  thought  and  elegance  of  ex- 
pression. 

SOXNET   TO   ITALY. 

Thanks  be  to  God  I  my  feet  are  now  addressed, 

Proud  Italy,  at  last  to  visit  thee 

After  six  weary  years  of  destiny 

Forbids  me  in  thy  dear-loved  lap  to  rest. 

With  weeping  eyes,  with  look  and  heart  deprest, 

Upon  my  natal  soil  I  bend  the  knee, 

While  hope  and  joy  my  troubled  spirit  flee, 

And  anguish,  rage,  and  terror  till  my  breast. 

I  turn  me,  then,  the  snowy  Alps  to  tread, 

And  seek  the  Gaul,  more  kindly  prompt  to  greet 

The  child  of  other  lands,  than  thou  art  thlue. 

Here,  in  these  shady  vales,  mine  old  retreat, 

I  lay  in  solitude  mine  aching  head : 

Since  Heaven  decrees,  and  thou  dost  so  incline. 

ALCAZAJR,  Baltazar  de,  a  Spanish  poet, 
who  lived  in  the  sixteenth  century.  In  his 
own  age  he  ranked  high  in  the  roll  of  authors, 
and  Cervantes  i^raises  him  as  having  made 
the  Spanish  river  Guadalquiver  equal  in  gloiy 
to  the  Mincio,  the  Arno,  and  the  Tiber.  His 
verses  on  Sleep  embody  a  pleasant  conceit. 

SLEEP. 

Sleep  is  no  servant  of  the  will, 
It  has  caprices  of  its  own : 
When  most  pursued,  'tis  swiftly  gone; 

When  courted  least,  it  lingers  still. 

With  its  vagaries  long  perplexed. 


160  AMOS  BKONSOX  ALCOTT. 

1  turned  and  turned  my  restless  sconce, 

Till,  one  bright  night,  I  thought  at  once 
I'd  master  it: — So  hear  my  text. 
When  sleep  will  tarry,  I  begin 

My  long  and  my  accustomed  prayer; 

And  in  a  twinkling,  sleep  is  there, 
Tlirougli  my  bed-curtains  peeping  in : 
When  sleep  hangs  heavy  on  my  eyes, 

I  think  of  debts  I  fain  would  pay 

And  then,  as  flies  night's  shade  from  day, 
Sleep  from  my  heavy  eyelids  flies. 
A.nd  thus  controlled,  the  winged  one  bends 

E'en  his  fantastic  will  to  me; 

And,  strange  Init  true,  both  I  and  he 
Are  friends — the  very  best  of  friends. 
We  are  a  happy  wedded  pair. 

And  I  the  lord  and  he  the  dame; 

Our  bed,  our  boaid,  our  hours  the  same; 
And  we're  united  everywhere. 
— Transl.  of  Bowring. 

ALCOTT,  Amos  Bronson,  an  American 
educator  and  philosopher,  born  at  Wolcott, 
Conn.,  Nov.  29,  1799.  While  a  boy  he  went 
to  the  ISouth  with  a  trunk  of  merchandise, 
Avith  which  he  travelled  from  plantation  to 
plantation.  The  planters  received  him  hos- 
pitably, and  lent  him  books,  which  he  studied 
diligently,  and  thus  educated  himself  in  the 
strictest  sense  of  the  term.  He  returned  to 
Connecticut  and  opened  an  infant-school.  In 
1828  he  removed  to  Boston,  w^here  he  con- 
ducted a  similar  school  for  some  years,  and 
subsequently  took  up  his  residence  at  Con- 
cord, Mass.  After  a  visit  to  England,  in 
1842,  he  established  an  educational  commu- 
nity near  Harvard,  Mass.,  w^hich  was  soon 
afterward  abandoned,  wdien  he  returned  to 
Concord,  and  took  upon  himself  the  work  of 
a  peripatetic  philosopher,  lecturing  and  con- 
versing, as  invitations  were  extended  to  him, 
i»pon  a  wade  range  of  topics,  among  which 
i  1  ^ere  divinity,  ethics,  dietetics,  and  human 


AMOS  BRONSON   ALCOTT.  lOl 

nature  in  geuei-al.  In  the  mean  wliile  he  con- 
tributed,  under  the  title  of  Orphic  Sai/iin/s, 
a  series  of  transcendental  papers  to  The  l)i<d, 
a  Magazine  edited  by  Margaret  Fidler  and 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  and  published  several 
books,  among  which  are  Conversations  with 
Children  on  the  (rospels  (183(5) ;  Spirit md 
Culture  a«-iO) ;  Taldets  (1868) ;  Concord  Da/js 
(1872) ;  and  Table  Talk  (1877).  His  Tal)le  Talk, 
unlike  most  works  so  designated,  embody  not 
his  utterances  taken  down  by  others,  mainly 
from  memory,  but  are  his  own  careful  ])re- 
sentation  and  summation  of  the  thoughts  and 
principles  which  lie  had  inculcated  and  set 
forth  orally  during  his  thirty  years  as  a  per- 
ipatetic philosopher.  Within  the  compass  of 
a  small  volume  he  has  comprised  the  essential 
sum  and  substance  of  his  long  meditations 
and  instructions  upon  high  and  noble  themes 
perttiining  to  human  life  and  culture.  It 
finds  its  nearest  parallel  in  the  Apothegms 
of  Bacon. 

CONCORD   AND   ITS   SURKOUNDINOS. 

Like  its  surbiuban  ueigbbcn-  beside  the  Charles, 
our  village,  seated  along  the  banks  of  its  Indian 
stream,  spreads  a  rural  cradle  for  the  fresher  lit- 
erature; and  aside  from  these  advantages  it  well 
deserves  its  name  for  its  quiet  scenery  and  plain 
population.  Moreover,  few  spots  in  New  Eng- 
land have  won  a  like  literary  repute.  The  rural 
muse  has  traversed  these  fields,  meadows,  wood- 
lauds,  the  brook-sides,  the  river;  caught  tlie  har- 
mony of  its  changing  skies,  and  portrayed  their 
spirit  in  books  that  are  lit  to  live  while  Letters 
delight,  and  Nature  chaA-ms  her  lovers.  Had  Ho- 
mer, had  Virgil,  fairer  prospects  than  our  land- 
scape affords  ?  Had  Shakspearc  or  Goethe  a  uu>re 
luxuriant  sini])licity  than  ours?  Only  the  wit  to  say 
or  sing  these  the  poet  needs;  and  of  this  our  neigh- 
borhood has  not  less  than  many  sounding  cities. 
Plain  as  our  landscape  is,  it  has  sjiecial  attractions 
for  the  scholar  wlio  courts  (piiet  surroundings 
11 


162  AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT. 

scenery  not  too  exciting,  yet  stimulating  to  genial 
and  uninterrupted  studies.  If  tlie  hills  command 
no  very  broad  horizon,  the  prospect  is  sufficiently 
sylvan  to  give  an  agreeable  variety  Avithout  con- 
fusing the  mind,  while  the  river  in  good  part 
compensates  for  the  sameness,  as  it  winds  slug- 
gishly along  the  confines  of  the  village,  flowing  by 
the  monument  into  the  distance  through  the 
meadows.  Thoreau,  writing  of  it,  jocosely  says, 
"It  is  remarkable  for  the  gentleness  of  its  cur- 
rent, which  is  hardly  perceptible,  and  some  have 
ascribed  to  its  influence  the  proverbial  moderation 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Concord,  as  celebrated  in 
the  Revolution  and  on  other  occasions.  It  has  been 
suggested  that  the  town  should  adopt  for  its  coat- 
of-arms  afield  verdant  Avith  the  Concord  River 
circling  nine  times  round  it." — Table-Talk. 

EPHEMERAL   READING. 

Not  in  stirring  times  like  ours,  when  the  world's 
affairs  come  posted  Avith  tlic  successive  sun  rising 
or  setting,  can  we  ignore  Magazines,  Libraries  and 
Ephemera  of  the  Press.  NcAvspapers  intrude  into 
every  house,  almost  supersede  the  primers  and 
text-books  of  the  schools,  proffering  alike  to  hand 
and  eye  intelligence  formeily  Avon  only  by  labo- 
rious studies  and  much  expense  of  time  and  money. 
Cheap  literature  is  uoav  in  vogue;  the  age,  if  not 
profound,  has  chances  for  attaining  some  super- 
ficial knowledge,  at  least,  of  the  Avorld's  doings 
and  designings :  the  experiments  of  the  f cav  being 
hereby  popularized  for  the  benefit  of  the  many 
everywhere,  the  humblest  even  partaking  largely 
of  the  common  benefit. — Tahlc-Talk. 

IDEALISM    AND    IDEALISTS. 

Life  and  literature  need  the  inspiration  which 
Idealism  (juickens  and  promotes.  The  history  of 
thought  shoAvs  that  a  people  given  to  sensation- 
alism and  the  lower  forms  of  materialism  have 
run  to  ruin.  Only  that  Avhich  inspires  life  and 
nobility  of  thought -can  maintain  and  preserve  it- 
self from  speedy  and  ignoble  decay.  Ajid  Ave 
have  too  palpable  evidences  of  corruption,  public 


AMOS  BKONSON  ALCOTT.  163 

and  privjite,  to  leave  us  in  doubt  as' to  the  ten- 
dency of  not  a  little  of  the  cultivation  and  teach- 
ings in  our  times.  .  .  .  The  Idealists  have  given 
deeper  insight  into  life  and  nature  than  other 
schools  of  thought.  If  inclined  to  visionariness, 
and  seemingly  sometimes  on  the  verge  of  lunacy 
even,  they  have  revealed  depths  of  being,  a  devo- 
tion to  the  spirit  of  universality,  that  render  their 
works  most  edifying.  They,  more  than  any  other 
hold  the  balance  between  mind  and  matter,  and 
illuminated  literature,  while  they  furthered  the 
science,  art,  and  religion  of  all  times.  An  age 
deficient  in  idealism  has  ever  been  one  of  immor- 
ality and  superficial  attainment,  since  without 
the  sense  of  ideas,  nobility  of  character  becomes 
of  rare  attainment,  if  possible.— Ta^Ze  Talk. 

PREACHING. 

If  the  speaker  cannot  illuminate  the  parlor, 
shall  he  adorn  the  pulpit?  Who  takes  most  of 
private  life  into  the  desk  comes  nearest  heaven 
and  the  children  who  have  not  lapsed  out  of  it. 
Is  it  not  time  in  the  world's  history  to  have  less 
familiarity  with  Sin  and  the  woes  of  the  pit '? 
Commend  me  to  him  who  holds  me  fast  by  every 
sense,  persuades  me — against  every  bias  of  tem- 
perament, habit,  training,  culture — to  espouse  the 
just  and  lovely,  and  he  shall  be  in  my  eyes  there- 
after the  Priest  of  the  Spirit  and  the  Sent  of 
Heaven. — It  is  undeniable  that,  with  all  our  teach- 
ing and  preaching — admirable  as  these  often  are — 
the  current  divinity  falls  behind  our  attainments 
in  most  things  else:  the  commanding  practical 
sense  and  adventurous  thoughts  of  our  time  being 
unawakened  to  the  concerns  wherein  faith  and 
duty  have  their  seats,  and  from  whose  fountains 
life  and  thought  are  spiritualized  and  made  lovely 
to  men.  Though  Allegory  is  sui)erseded  in  good 
part  by  the  Novel,  the  held  for  this  form  of  writ- 
ing is  as  rich  and  inviting  as  when  Bunyan  wrote. 
A  Sacred  Allegory,  treating  of  the  current  charac- 
teristics of  the  religious  world,  would  be  a  power- 
ful instrumentality  for  awaking  and  stimulating 
the  piety  of  our  timea.  —  Tuhle-Talk. 


164  AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT. 

I>OGMAS. 

Every  Do.^ma  embodies  some  shade  of  truth  to 
give  it  seeming  currency.  Take  the  Tlieological 
Trinity  as  an  instance  which  has  vexed  the  Literal 
Church  from  its  foundation,  and  still  perplexes 
its  learned  Doctors.  An  intelligible  psycliology 
would  interpret  the  mystery  even  to  the  unlearned 
and  unprofessional.  Analyze  the  attributes  of 
your  Personality — that  which  you  name  Your- 
self— and  you  will  find  lierein  the  three-fold  at- 
tributes of  Instinct,  Intelligence,  Will,  incarnate 
in  your  own  person:— the  root  plainly  of  the  Trin- 
itarian Dogma.— Not  till  Ave  have  fathomed  the 
full  .significance  of  what  we  mean  when  we  pro- 
nounce "/  myself,'^  is  the  idea  of  Person  clearly 
discriminated,  Philosophy  and  lleligion  estab- 
lished upon  immutable  foundations. — Table-Talk. 

CONSCIENCE. 

Ever  present  and  operant  is  That  whicli  never 
becomes  a  party  in  one's  guilt,  conceives  never  an 
evil  thought,  consents  never  to  an  unrighteous 
deed,  never  sins;  but  holds  itself  impeccable,  im- 
mutable, personally  holy — the  Conscience — coun- 
sellor, comforter,  judge,  and  executor  of  the 
Spirit's  decrees.  None  can  flee  from  the  Spirit's 
presence,  nor  hide  from  Himself.  The  reserved 
])Owers  are  the  Mighty  Ones.  Side  by  side  sleep 
the  Whispering  Sisters  and  the  Eumenides.  Nor 
is  Conscience  appeased  till  tire  sentence  is  pro- 
nounced. There  is  an  oracle  in  the  breast,  an 
unsleeping  police;  and  ever  the  Court  sits,  deal- 
ing doom  or  deliverance.  Our  sole  inheritance  is 
our  deeds.  While  remorse  stirs  the  sinner,  tliere 
remains  hope  of  his  redemption.  "  Only  he  to 
whom  all  is  One,  wlio  draweth  all  things  to  One. 
and  seeth  all  things  in  One,  may  enjoy  true  peace 
and  rest  of  spirit.  None  can  escape  tlie  Presence. 
The  Oiiiiht  is  everywhere  and  imperative.  Alike 
guilt  in  the  soul  and  anguish  in  tlie  flesh  affirm 
His  ubiquity.  Matter — in  particle  and  planet, 
mind  and  macrocosm — is  (piick  with  Spirit. — 
Tuhle-Tulk. 


AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT.  165 

SPllUTUAIilTV. 

Boi'H  daily  out  of  a  woi-ld  of  wonders  iiitt>  a 
world  of  wonders,  that  faith  is  most  ennobling 
which,  answering  to  one's  highest  aspirations, 
touches  all  things  meanwhile  with  the  hues  of  an 
invisible  world.  And  how  vastly  is  life's  aspect, 
the  sphere  of  one's  present  activity,  widcmed  and 
ennobled  the  moment  there  step  spiritual  agents 
upon  the  stage,  and  he  holds  C(.>nscious  communi- 
cation with  unseen  powers!  "He  to  whom  the 
law  which  he  is  to  follow,"  says  Jacobi,  "doth 
not  stand  forth  as  a  God,  has  only  a  dead  letter 
which  cannot  possibly  quicken  him."  The  re- 
ligious Life  transcends  the  scientific  Understand- 
ing, its  light  shining  through  the  clouds  to  those 
alone  whose  eyes  are  anointed  to  look  behind  the 
veils  by  lives  of  purity  and  davotkm.—Tahlc-Talk. 

rEKSONAT,   IDENTITY. 

Personal  Identity  is  the  sole  Identity.  "That 
which  knows  and  that  which  is  known,"  says 
Aristotle,  "are  really  the  same  thing."  The 
knowing  that  I~nm  aifirms  also  the  Personality 
immanent  in  all  Persons;  and  hence  of  the  Su- 
premo Person,  since  distinct  from  Personality 
neither  Mind  nor  God  were  thinkable.  And  it 
were  impossible  to  have  like  conceptions  in  our 
minds,  if  we  did  not  partake  of  one  and  the  same 
intellect. 

Were  Gotl  not  God,  I  were  not  I; 
Myself  In  Him  myself  descry. 

An  impersonal  God  were  an  absurdity.  Person- 
ality is  essential  to  the  idea  of  Spirit,  and  man. 
as  man,  were  unthinkable  without  the  presup- 
position of  Personality.  It  is  the  I  that  gives 
subsistence  to  Nature  and  reality  to  Mind.  Where 
the  I  is  not,  nothing  is.  Religion  and  Science 
alike  ])resuppose  its  presence  as  their  postulate 
and  gr<iund.  It  is  the  Essence  of  which  Substance 
is  the  Manifestation.  Qualities  are  inherent  in 
Subst.ancc,  and  substance  is  one  and  spiritual. 
Personal  Identity  is  spiritual,  not  numerical. 
Souls  being  one,  Bodies  not  one.  Any  number  of 
Bodies  can  never  attain  to  Unity,  since  it  is  the  One 


166  AMOS  BRON.SOX  ALCOTT. 

in  eacli  that  defines  and  denotes  it.  The  Person- 
ality is  inclusive  of  the  One  in  each  and  in  all.— 
Table-Talk. 

SIGNIFICANCE   OF   SLEEP. 

Our  sleep  is  a  significant  symbol  of  the  soul's 
antecedence.  Shall  I  question  that  I  now  am, 
because  I  ain  unconscious  of  being  myself  while  I 
slept;  or  because  I  am  conscious  of  being  then 
unconscious?  I  am  sure  of  being  one  and  the 
same  Person  I  then  was,  and  thread  my  identity 
through  my  successive  yesterdays  into  the  mem- 
ory out  of  which  my  consciousness  was  born;  nor 
can  I  lose  Myself  in  the  searcli  of  myself.  At 
best,  our  mortality  is  but  a  suspended  animation, 
the  >Souf  meanwhile  awaiting  its  summons  to 
awaken  from  its  slumbers.  Every  act  of  sleep  is 
a  metamorphosis  of  bodies  and  a  metempsychosis 
oi  souls.  We  lapse  out  of  the  senses  into  the  pre- 
existent  life  of  memory  through  the  gate  of 
dreams,  Memory  and  Fancy  opening  their  folding- 
doors  into  our  past  and  future  periods  of  exist- 
ence:— the  Soul  freed  for  the  moment  from  its 
dormitoi-y  in  Space  and  Time.  The  more  of  sleep 
the  more  of  retrospect;  the  more  of  wakefulness; 
the  more  of  prospect.  Memory  marks  the  nadir 
of  our  consciousness,  Imagination  its  zenith.  Be- 
fore the  heavens  thou  art,  and  shall  survive  their 
decay.  Were  man  personally  finite,  he  could  not 
conceive  of  Infinity;  were  he  mortal  he  could  not 
conceive  of  Immortality.  Whatever  had  a  begin- 
ning comes  of  necessity  to  its  end,  since  it  has  not 
the  principle  of  perpetuity  inherent  in  itself.  And 
there  is  that  in  man  which  cannot  tliink  Annihila- 
tion, but  thinks  Continuance.  All  life  is  eternal; 
there  is  no  other.  Despair  snuffs  the  sun  fi-om 
*:he  firmament. 

"  For  souls  that  of  His  own  good  life  partake 
He  loves  as  his  own  self;  clear  as  His  eye 
They  are  to  Him,    He'll  never  them  forsake. 
AMien  they  shall  die,  theu  God  Himself  shall  die. 
They  live,  they  live  in  blest  eternity." 
—Table-Talk. 

In  the  Conversations  with  Children  on  tJie 
Gospels,  written  in  1840,  a  whole  generation 


AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT.  1R7 

before  this  Book  of  Table-Talk  appeared 
in  print,  Mr.  Alcott  developed  somewhat  of 
the  fiuidamental  idea  which  led  him  in  after 
years  to  become  an  oral  teacher : 

CONVERSATION   AS   A   MEANS  OF    INSTRUCTroN. 

In  conversation  all  the  instincts  and  faculties  of 
our  l)eing  are  touched.  They  lind  full  and  fair 
scope.  It  tempts  forth  all  the  powers.  Man  faces 
his  fellow  man.  He  feels  the  quickening  life  and 
light,  the  social  affections  are  addressed;  and 
these  bring  all  the  faculties  in  train.  Speech 
comes  unbidden.  Nature  lends  her  images.  Im- 
agination sends  abroad  her  winged  words.  We 
see  thought  as  it  springs  from  the  soul,  and  in 
the  very  process  of  gi-owth  and  utterance.  Reason 
plays  under  the  mellow  light  of  fancy.  The  (4en- 
ius  of  Soul  is  waked,  and  eloquence  sits  on  lier 
tuneful  lip.  Wisdom  Ihuls  an  organ  worthy  her 
serene  utterance.  Ideas  stand  in  beauty  and  maj- 
esty before  the  soul.  And  genius  has  ever  sought 
this  organ  of  utterance.  It  has  given  full  testi- 
mony in  its  favor.  Socrates — a  name  that  (Jliris- 
tians  can  see  coupled  with  that  of  their  Divine 
gage— descanted  thus  on  the  profound  themes  in 
which  he  delighted.  The  market-place,  the  work- 
shop, the  public  streets,  were  his  favorite  haunts 
of  instruction.  And  the  divine  Plato  has  added 
his  testimony,  also,  in  those  enduring  works, 
wherein  he  sought  to  embalm  for  posterity  l)oth 
the  wisdom  of  his  master  and  the  genius  which 
was  his  own.  Rich  text-books  these  for  the  study 
of  philosophic  genius;  next  in  finish  and  beauty 
to  the  specimens  of  Jesus  as  recorded  by  John.— 
Spiritual  Culture. 

The  "Orphic  Sayings  "—one  hundred  in 
number— appeared  in  The  Dial  for  July,  1840, 
and  January,  1841.  They  are  pregnant  and 
brief;  sometimes  of  only  a  line  or  two;  all 
told  they  fill  barely  a  score  of  pages.  Some 
of  them  are  notable  as  indicative  of  the  au- 
thor's turn  of  thought  at  this  period  of  his 
life. 


168  AMOS  BRONSON  ALCOTT. 


SOME   OKPHIC    SAYINGS. 

I.  The  neart-lJial.— Thou  ait,  my  heart,  a  soul- 
flower,  ffeliug  ever  and  following  the  motions  of 
thy  smi.  Opening  thyself  to  her  vivifyhig  ray, 
and  pleading  tliy  allinity  with  the  celestial  orbs. 
Thou  dost  the  livelong  day  dial  on  Time  thine  own 
eternity.  .  .  .  viii.  Mijstichin. — Because  the  soul 
is  herself  mysterious,  the  saint  is  a  mystic  to  the 
worldling.  He  lives  to  the  soul;  he  partakes  of 
her  properties;  he  dwells  in  her  atmosphere  of 
light  and  liope.  But  the  worldling,  living  to  .sense, 
is  identihed  with  the  ilesli;  he  dwells  amidst  the 
dust  and  vajiors  of  his  own  lusts,  which  dim  his 
vision,  and  obscure  the  heavens  wherein  the 
saint  ))eholds  the  face  of  God.  .  .  .  x.  Apothe- 
o.s/s. — Every  soul  feels  at  times  her  own  possi- 
bility of  becoming  a  (iod;  she  cannot  rest  in  the 
human;  she  aspires  to  the  godlike.  Men  shall 
become  Gods.  Every  act  t)f  admiration,  prayer, 
praise,  worship,  desire,  hoi)e,  implies  and  predicts 
the  future  apotheosis  of  the  soul.  ...  xxv. 
TFie  Prophef. — The  prophet,  by  disciplines  of 
meditation  and  valor,  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  the 
heart,  his  eye  purified  of  the  motes  of  tradition,  liis 
life  of  the  vestiges  of  usage,  ascends  to  the  heights 
of  iinmediate  intuition.  He  rends  the  veil  of  sense; 
he  bridges  the  distance  between  faith  and  sight, 
and  beholds  the  Spiritual  verities  without  script- 
ure or  mediation.  In  the  presence  of  God  he  com- 
munes with  Ilim  face  to  face.  .  .  .  xxxviii. 
Thiir. — Organizations  are  mortal;  the  seal  of 
death  is  hxed  on  them  even  at  birth.  The  young 
Future  is  nurtured  by  the  Past,  yet  aspires  to  a 
nobler  life,  and  revises  in  his  maturity  the  tra- 
ditions and  usages  of  his  day,  to  be  supplanted 
by  the  sons  and  daughters  whom  he  begets  and 
ennobles.  Time,  like  fabled  Saturn,  now  gener- 
ates, and,  ere  even  their  sutures  be  closed,  de- 
vours his  OAvn  offspring.  Only  the  cliildreu  of 
the  soul  arc  immortal;  the  births  of  Time  are 
premature  and  perishable.  .  .  .  xlviii.  Beauty. 
— All  departures  from  perfect  beauty  arc  degrada- 
tions of  the  divine  image.  God  is  the  one  type 
which  the  Soul  strives  to  incarnate  in  all  orgauiz- 


AMOS  BKONSON  ALCOTT.  1G9 

ations.  Vai-ictics  are  historical:  the  one  form 
embodies  all  forms;  all  liavino-  a  common  likeness 
at  the  base  of  difference.  Human  heads  are  im- 
ages, more  or  less  perfect,  of  the  Soul's  or  God's 
head.  But  the  divine  features  do  not  fix  in  flesh, 
in  the  coarse  and  brittle  clay.  Beauty  is  fluent; 
Art  of  the  highest  order  represents  her  always  in 
flux,  giving  fluency  and  motion  to  bodies  solid 
and  immovable  to  sense.  The  Line  of  Beauty 
symbolizes  motion.  .  .  .  lxix.  Popularity. — The 
saints  are  alone  popular  in  heaven,  not  on  earth ; 
elect  of  God,  they  are  spurned  by  the  world. 
They  hate  their  age,  its  awards,  their  own  af- 
fections even,  save  as  those  unite  them  with 
Justice,  with  Valor,  Avith  God.  Whoso  loves 
father  or  mother,  wife  or  child,  houses  or  lands, 
pleasures  or  honors,  or  life,  more  than  these,  is  an 
idolater,  and  worships  the  idols  of  sense;  his  life 
is  death;  his  love  hate;  his  friends  foes;  his  fame 

infamy i>xix.     Genius    and    Sanctity. — A 

man's  period  is  according  to  the  directness  and 
intensity  of  his  light.  Not  erudition,  not  taste, 
not  intellect,  but  character,  describes  his  orbit, 
and  determines  the  worlds  he  shall  enlighten. 
Genius  and  Sanctity  cast  no  shadow;  like  the  sun 
at  broad  noon,  the  ray  of  these  orbs  pours  direct 
intense  on  the  world,  and  they  are  seen  in  their 
own  light.  .  .  .  Lxxiii.  U«n-enne,ss. — Opinions  are 
Life  in  foliage;  deeds  in  fruitage.  .Always  was 
the  fruitless  tree  accursed.  .  .  .  Lxxxiii.  Retribu- 
tion.— The  laws  of  the  Soul  and  of  Nature  are 
forecast  and  pre-ordained  in  the  spirit  of  God 
and  are  ever  executing  themselves  through  Con- 
science in  man,  and  Gravity  in  things.  Mrai's 
body  and  the  world  are  organs  through  which  the 
retributions  of  the  Spiritual  universe  are  justified 
to  reason  and  sense.  Disease  and  misfortune  arc 
memoranda  of  violations  of  the  Divine  Law,  writ- 
ten in  the  letter  of  Pain  and  Evil.  .  .  .  lxxxvii. 
Tradition. — Tradition  suckles  the  young  ages,  who 
imbibe  health  or  disease,  insight  or  ignorance, 
valor  or  pusillanimity,  as  the  stream  of  life  flows 
down,  from  urns  of  sobriety  or  luxury,  from  times 
of  wisdom  or  folly,  honor  or  shame.  .  .  .  xcvii. 
Immortality. — It  is  because  the  Soul  is  immortal 


170  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

that  all  lier  ornjans  decease,  and  are  again  re- 
newed. Growth  and  decay,  sepulture  and  resvir- 
rection,  tread  fast  on  the  heels  of  the  other. 
Birth  entombs  death;  death  encradles  birth.  The 
incorruptible  is  ever  i)utting  off  corruption;  the 
immortal  mortality.  Xature,  indeed,  is  but  the 
ashes  of  the  departed  soul,  and  the  body  her 
urn.  ...  c.  Silence. — Silence  is  the  initiative  to 
Wisdom.  Wit  is  silent,  and  justifies  her  children 
by  their  reverence  of  the  voiceless  oracles  of  the 
breast.  Inspiration  is  dumb,  a  listener  to  the  ora- 
cles during  her  nonage;  suddenly  she  speaks,  to 
mock  the  emptineso  of  all  speech.  Silence  is  the 
dialect  of  heaven;  the  utterance  of  the  Gods. — 
Orphic  Sayings. 

ALCOTT,  Louisa  May,  an  American  au- 
thor, daughter  of  Amos  B.  Alcott,  born  at 
Gerniantown,  Penn.,  in  1833.  Her  eai'Hest 
work,  Fairy  Tales,  was  published  in  1855. 
During  the  early  part  of  the  civil  war  she 
acted  as  a  hospital  nurse,  and  in  1863  issued  a 
volume  of  Hospital  Sketches  made  up  from 
letters  which  she  had  written  to  her  friends 
at  home.  About  this  time  she  became  a  con- 
tributor to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  began 
her  distinctive  career  as  a  writer  of  books 
about  young  people  and  for  young  people. 
The  principal  of  these  are :  Moods  (1861) ;  Morn- 
ing Glories  (1867) ;  Little  Women  (1868),  which 
was  her  first  decided  success;  An  Old  Fash- 
ioned Girl  (1869);  Little  Men  (1871);  Work 
(1873);  Eight  Cousins  (1875),  and  its  sequel, 
Rose  in  Bloom  (1877),  which,  perhaps,  rank 
first  among  her  books ;  Under  the  Lilacs  (1878) ; 
Jack  and  Jill  (1880) .  Besides  these  she  has  put 
forth  at  different  times  sevei'al  volumes  of 
short  stories,  among  which  are  Cupid  and 
Chmo-Choio,  Silver  Pitchers,  and  Aunt  Joe's 
Scrap-Bag. 

MEG,    JO,    BETH,    AXD   AMY. 

"Christmas  won't  be  Christmas  without  any 
presents,"  grumbled  Jo,  lying  on  the  rug. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.  171 

"It's  so  dreadful  to  be  poor,"  sighed  Meg, 
looking-  down  at  her  old  dress. 

''I  don't  think  it's  fair  for  some  girls  to  have 
plenty  of  pretty  things,  and  others  nothing  at  all," 
added  little  Amy,  with  an  injured  sniff. 

"  We've  got  father  and  mother,"  said  Beth  con- 
tentedly from  her  corner. 

The  four  young  faces  on  which  the  firelight 
shone  brightened  at  the  cheerful  words,  but  dark- 
ened again  as  Jo  said,  sadly — 

"  We  haven't  got  father,  and  shall  not  have  him 
for'a  long  time."  She  didn't  say  "  perhaps  never," 
but  each  silently  added  it,  thinking  of  father  far 
away,  where  the  fighting  was. 

Nol)ody  spoke  for  a  minute;  then  Meg  said  in 
an  altered  tone — 

"  You  know  tlie  reason  mother  proposed  not 
having  any  presents  this  Christmas  was  because  it 
is  going  to  be  a  hard  Winter  for  every  one;  and 
she  thinks  we  ought  not  to  spend  money  for  pleas- 
ure, when  our  men  are  suffering  so  in  the  army. 
We  can't  do  much,  but  we  can  make  our  little 
saci-ifices,  and  ought  to  do  it  gladly.  But  I  am 
afraid  I  don't;"  and  Meg  shook  her  head,  as  she 
thought  regretfully  of  all  the  pretty  things  she 
wanted. 

"But  I  don't  think  the  little  we  should  spend 
would  do  any  good.  We've  each  got  a  dollar, 
and  the  army  wouldn't  be  much  helped  by  our 
giving  that.  I  agree  not  to  expect  anything  from 
mother  or  you ;  but  I  do  want  to  buy  Undine  and 
Sintra)n  for  myself;  I've  wanted  it  so  long,"  said 
Jo,  who  was  a  bookworm. 

"I  planned  to  spend  mine  in  new  music,"  said 
Beth,  with  a  little  sigh  which  no  one  heard  but 
the  hearth-brush  and  the  kettle-holder. 

"  I  shall  get  a  nice  box  of  Faber's  drawing-pen- 
cils; I  really  need  them,"  said  Amy,  decidedly. 

"  Mother  didn't  say  anytliing  about  our  money, 
and  she  won't  wish  us  to  give  up  everything. 
Let's  each  buy  what  we  want,  and  have  a  little 
fun;  I'm  sure  we  work  hard  enough  to  earn  it," 
cried  Jo,  examining  the  heels  of  her  boots  in  a 
gentlemanly  manner. 

"  I  kn(^w  I  do — teaching  thojse  tiresome  children 


1*72  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

nearly  all  day,  when  I'm  longing  to  enjoy  myself 
at  home,"  began  Meg,  in  the  complaining  tone 
again. 

"  You  don't  have  half  such  a  hard  time  as  I 
do,"  said  Jo.  "  How  would  you  like  to  be  shut  up 
for  hours  with  a  fussy,  nervous  old  lady,  who 
keeps  you  trotting,  is  never  satisfied,  and  worries 
you  till  you're  ready  to  fly  out  of  the  window  or 
cry?" 

"  It's  nauglity  to  fret;  but  I  do  think  washing 
dishes,  and  keeping  things  tidy,  is  the  worst  work 
in  the  world.  It  makes  me  cross;  and  my  hands 
get  so  stiff,  I  can't  pi-actice  well  at  all; "  and  Beth 
looked  at  her  rough  hands,  with  a  sigh  that  any 
one  could  hear  that  time. 

"  I  don't  believe  any  of  you  suffer  as  I  do,"  cried 
Amy;  "for  you  don't  have  to  goto  school  with 
impertinent  girls,  wlio  plague  you  if  you  don't 
know  your  lessons,  and  laugh  at  your  dresses,  and 
label  your  father  if  lie  isn't  rich,  and  insult  you 
when  your  nose  isn't  nice." 

"  If  you  mean  libel,  I'd  say  so,  and  not  talk 
about  labels,  an  if  papa  was  a  pickle-bottle,"  ad- 
vised Jo,  laughing. 

"I  know  what  I  mean,  and  you  needn't  be 
statirical  about  it.  It's  proper  to  use  good  words, 
and  improve  your  vocabilary,^''  i-eturned  Amy,  with 
dignity. 

"Don't  peck  at  one  another,  children.  Don't 
you  wish  we  had  the  money  papa  lost  when  we 
were  little,  Jo  ?  Dear  me !  how  happy  and  good 
we'd  be,  if  we  had  no  worries!"  said  Meg,  who 
could  remember  better  times. 

"  You  said,  the  other  day,  you  thought  we  were 
a  deal  happier  than  the  King  children,  for  they 
were  fighting  and  fretting  all  the  time,  in  spite  of 
their  money." 

"So  I  did,  Beth,  Well,  I  think  we  are;  for 
though  we  have  to  work,  we  make  fun  for  our- 
selves, and  are  a  pretty  jolly  set,  as  Jo  would  say." 

"  Jo  does  use  such  slang  w<n'ds !  "  observed  Amy 
with  a  reproving  look  at  the  long  figure  stretched 
on  the  rug.  Jo  immediately  sat  up,  put  her  hands 
in  lier  pockets,  and  began  to  whistle. 

"  D(m't,  Jo;  it's  so  boyish!  " 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.  173 

"  Tliat's  why  I  do  it." 

"■  I  detest  rude,  unladylike  girls!" 

"  I  hate  affected  niminy-piminy  chits!" 

"  'Birds  in  their  little  nests  aoree,'  "  sang  Beth, 
the  peace-maker,  with  such  a  funny  face  that  both 
sharp  voices  softened  to  a  laugh,  and  the  "peck- 
ing "  ended  for  that  time. 

"Really,  girls,  you  are  both  to  be  blamed,"  said 
Meg,  beginning  to  lecture  in  her  elder-sisterly 
fashion.  "  You  are  old  enough  to  leave  oft"  boy- 
ish tricks,  and  to  behave  better,  Josephine.  It 
didn't  matter  so  mucli  when  you  were  a  little 
girl;  but  now  you  are  so  tall,  and  turn  up  your 
hair,  you  should  remember  that  you  are  a  young 
lady." 

"  I'm  not!  and  if  turning  up  my  hair  makes  mc 
one,  I'll  wear  it  in  two  tails  till  I'm  twenty," 
cried  Jo,  pulling  off  her  net,  and  shaking  down  a 
chestnut  mane.  "I  hate  to  think  I've  got  to 
grow  up,  and  be  Miss  March,  and  wear  long  gowns, 
and  look  as  prim  as  a  China-Aster!  It's  bad 
enough  to  be  a  girl  anyway,  when  I  like  boy's 
games  and  work  and  manners.'  I  can't  get  over 
my  disappointment  in  not  being  a  boy,  and  it's 
worse  than  ever  now,  for  I'm  dying  to  go  and 
fight  with  papa,  and  I  can  only  stay  at  home  and 
knit,  like  a  pokey  old  woman!  "  And  Jo  shook 
the  blue  army  sock  till  the  needles  rattled  like 
castanets,  and  her  ball  bounded   across  the  room, 

"  Poor  Jo!  It's  too  bad,  but  it  can't  be  helped; 
so  you  must  be  contented  with  making  your  name 
boyish,  and  playing  brother  to  us  girls,"  said  Beth, 
stroking  the  rough  head  at  her  knee,  with  a  hand 
that  all  the  dish-washing  in  the  world  could  not 
make  ungentle  in  its  touch. 

"As  for  you.  Amy,"  continued  Meg,  "  you  are 
altogether  too  particular  and  prim.  Your  airs  are 
funny  now;  but  you'll  grow  up  an  affected  little 
goose,  if  you  don't  take  care.  I  like  your  nice 
manners  .and  refined  ways  of  speaking,  when  you 
don't  try  to  l)e  elegant;  but  your  absurd  words  are 
as  bad  as  Jo's  slang." 

"  If  Jo  is  a  tom-boy  and  Amy  a  goose,  what  am 
I,  please  ?  "  asked  Beth,  ready  to  share  the  lect- 
ure. 


174  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

"  You're  a  clear,  and  notlunj:^  else,"  answered 
Mei"-  warmly;  and  no  one  contradicted  lier,  for  the 
"  Mouse  "  Avas  the  pet  of  the  family. 

The  clock  struck  six;  and  having  swept  up  the 
hearth,  Beth  put  a  pair  of  slippers  down  to  warm. 
Somehow  the  sight  of  the  old  shoes  had  a  good 
effect  upon  tlie  girls  ;  for  mother  was  coming,  and 
every  one  brightened  to  welcome  her.  Meg  stopped 
lecturing,  and  lighted  the  lamp;  Amy  got  out  of 
the  easy-chair  without  being  asked;  and  Jo  forgot 
how  tired  she  was,  as  she  sat  up  to  hold  the  slip- 
pers nearer  to  the  blaze. 

"  They  are  quite  worn  out;  Marmee  must  have 
a  new  pair." 

"  I  thought  I'd  get  her  some  with  my  dollar," 
said  Beth. 

"  No,  I  shall ! "  cried  Amy. 

"I'm  the  oldest,"  began  Meg;  but  Jo  cut  in 
with  a  decided — 

"  I'm  the  man  of  the  family  now  papa  is  away, 
and  /  shall  provide  the  slippers,  for  he  told  me  to 
take  special  care  of  motlicr  while  he  was  gone." 

"I'll  tell  y(m  what  we'll  do,"  said  Beth;  "  let's 
eacb  get  lier  sometliing  for  Christmas,  and  notget 
anytiiing  for  (mrselves." 

"That's  like  you,  dear!  What  will  we  get  ?  " 
exclaimed  Jo. 

Every  one  thought  soberly  for  a  minute;  then 
Meg  announced,  as  if  the  idea  was  suggested  by 
the  sight  of  lier  own  pretty  hands,  "I  shall  give 
her  a  nice  pair  of  gk)ves." 

"  Army  shoes — the  best  to  be  had,"  cried  Jo. 

"  Some  handkerchiefs,  all  hemmed,"  said  Beth. 

"I'll  get  a  little  bottle  of  cologne;  she  likes  it, 
and  it  won't  cost  much,  so  I'll  have  some  left  to 
buy  my  pencils,"  added  Amy. 

"  How  will  we  give  the  things  ?  "  asked  Meg. 

"  Put  them  on  the  table,  and  bring  her  in,  and 
see  her  open  the  bundles.  Don't  you  remember 
liow  we  used  to  do  on  our  birthdays  ?  "  answered 
Jo. 

"  I  used  to  be  .so  frightened  when  it  was  my  turn 
to  sit  in  the  big  chair  with  the  crown  on,  and  see 
you  all  come  marching  round  to  give  the  presents 
with  a  kiss.     I  liked  the   things  and  the  kisses; 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.  175 

but  it  was  dreadful  to  have  you  sit  looking  at  me 
"while  I  opened  the  bundles,"  said  Beth,  who  was 
toasting  her  face  and  the  bread  for  tea,  at  the 
same  time. 

"Let  Marmee  think  we  are  getting  things  for 
ourselves,  and  then  surprise  her.  We  must  go 
shopping  to-morrow  afternoon,  Meg;  there  is  so 
much  to  do  about  the  play  for  Christmas  night,"' 
said  Jo,  marching  up  and  down,  with  her  hands 
behind  her  back,  and  her  nose  in  the  air. 

"I  don't  mean  to  act  any  more  after  this  time; 
I'm  getting  too  old  for  such  things,"  observed 
Meg,  who  was  as  much  a  child  as  ever  about 
"  dressing-up  "  frolics. 

"  You  won't  stop,  I  know,  as  long  as  you  can 
trail  round  in  a  white  gown  with  your  hair  down, 
and  wear  gold-paper  jewellery.  You  are  the  best 
actress  we've  got,  and  there'll  be  an  end  of  every- 
thing if  yon  quit  the  boards,"  said  Jo.  "We 
ought  to  reheai'se  to-night.  Come  here,  Amy,  and 
do  the  fainting  scene,  for  you  are  as  stiff  as  a 
poker  in  that." 

"  I  can't  help  it;  I  never  saw  any  one  faint,  and  I 
don't  choose  to  make  myself  all  black-and-blue, 
tuml)ling  flat  as  you  do.  If  I  can  go  down  easily, 
I'll  drop;  if  I  can't,  I  shall  fall  into  a  chair  and  be 
graceful;  I  don't  care  if  Hugo  does  come  at  me 
with  a  pistol,"  returned  Amy,  who  was  not  gifted 
with  dramatic  power,  but  was  chosen  because  she 
was  small  enough  to  be  borne  out  shrieking  by  the 
villain  of  the  piece. 

"  Do  it  this  way:  clasp  your  hands  so,  and  stag- 
ger across  the  room,  crying  frantically,  '  Eoder- 
igo!  Save  me!  Save  me!'"  and  away  went  Jo, 
with  a  melodramatic  scream  which  was  truly 
thrilling. 

Amy  followed,  but  she  poked  her  hands  out 
stiffly  before  her,  and  jerked  herself  along  as  if 
she  went  by  machinery;  and  her  "Ow!"  was 
more  suggestive  of  pins  being  run  into  her  than  of 
fear  and  anguish.  Jo  gave  a  despairing  groan, 
and  Meg  laughed  outright,  while  Beth  let  her 
bread  burn  as  she  watched  the  fun,  with  interest. 

"It's  no  use!    Do  the  best  you  can  when  the 


176  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

time  comes,  and  if  the  audience  laugh,  don't 
blame  me.     Come  on,  Meg." 

Then  things  went  on  smoothly;  for  Don  Pedro 
defied  the  world  in  a  speech  of  two  pages,  with- 
out a  single  break;  Hagar,  the  witch,  chanted  an 
awful  incantation  over  her  kettlef ul  of  simmering 
toads,  with  weird  effect;  Koderigo  rent  his 
chains  asiuider  manfully;  and  Hugo  died  in  ago- 
nies of  remorse  aud  arsenic,  with  a  wild  "  Ha! 
ha!" 

"  It's  the  best  we've  had  yet,"  said  Meg,  as  the 
dead  villain  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  elbows. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  write  and  act  such 
splendid  things,  Jo.  You're  a  regular  Shakes- 
peare!" exclaimed  Beth,  who  firmly  believed 
that  her  sisters  were  gifted  with  wonderful  gen- 
ius in  all  things. 

"  Not  quite,"  replied  Jo  modestly.  "  I  do  thiiik 
The  Witch's  Curse,  an  Operatic  Trayedy,  is  rather  a 
nice  thing;  but  I'd  like  to  try  Macbeth,  if  we  only 
had  a  trap-door  for  Bauquo.  I  always  wanted  to 
do  the  killing  part.  '  Is  that  a  dagger  that  I 
see  before  me  '? '  "  muttered  Jo,  rolling  her  eyes 
and  clutidiing  the  air,  as  she  had  seen  a  famous 
tragedian  do. 

"  No,  it's  the  toasting-fork,  with  mother's  shoe 
on  it  instead  of  the  bread.  Betli's  stage-struck!  " 
cried  Meg,  and  the  rehearsal  ended  in  a  general 
burst  of  laughter. — Little  Women. 

WHAT  TnE  SWALLOWS   DID. 

A  man  lay  on  a  pile  of  new-made  hay,  in  a  gi'eat 
barn,  looking  up  at  the  swallows  who  darted  and 
twittered  above  him.  He  envied  the  cheerful  lit- 
tle creatures;  for  he  wasn't  a  happy  man,  though 
he  had  many  friends,  much  money,  and  the  beau- 
tiful gift  of  writing  songs  that  everybody  loved  to 
sing.  He  had  lost  his  wife  and  little  child,  and 
would  not  be  comforted;  but  lived  alone,  and 
went  about  with  such  a  gloomy  face  that  no  one 
liked  to  speak  to  him.  He  took  no  notice  of 
friends  and  neighbors;  neither  used  his  money 
for  himself  nor  others;  found  no  beauty  in  the 
world,  no  happiness  anywliere;  and  wrote  such 
sad  songs  it  made  one's  heart  ache  to  sing  them. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.  177 

As  he  lay  alone  on  the  sweet-smelling  hay,  with 
the  afternoon  sunshine  streaming  in,  and  the  husy 
birds  chirping  overhead,  he  said  sadly  to  himself — 

"Happy  swallows,  1  wish  I  was  one  of  you;  for 
you  have  no  pains  nor  sorrows,  and  your  cares  are 
very  light.  All  Summer  you  live  gayly  together; 
and  when  Winter  comes,  you  lly  away  to  the  lovely 
South,  unseparated  still." 

"  Neighbors,  do  you  hear  what  that  lazy  creat- 
ure down  there  is  saying?"  cried  a  Swallow, 
peeping  over  the  edge  of  her  nest,  and  addressing 
several  others  who  sat  on  a  beam  near  by. 

"  We  hear,  Mrs.  Skim;  and  quite  agree  with  you 
that  he  knows  very  little  about  us  and  our  affairs," 
answered  one  of  the  swallows,  with  a  sprite  chirp, 
like  a  scornful  laugh.  "  We  work  harder  than  he 
does  any  day.  Did  he  build  his  own  house,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?  Does  he  get  his  daily  bread 
for  himself  ?  How  many  of  his  neighbors  does  he 
help  ?  How  much  of  the  world  does  he  see,  and 
who  is  the  happier  for  his  being  alive  ?  " 

"Cares,  indeed!"  cried  anotlier;  "I  wish  he'd 
undertake  to  feed  and  teach  my  brood.  Much 
he  knows  about  the  anxieties  of  a  parent  ! "  And 
the  little  mother  bustled  away  to  get  supper  for 
the  young  ones,  whose  bills  were  always  gaping 
wide. 

"  Sorrows  we  have  too,"  softly  sighed  the  fourth 
swallow.  "  Ha  would  not  envy  me,  if  he  knew 
how  my  nest  fell,  and  all  my  children  were  killed; 
how  my  dear  husband  was  shot,  and  my  old 
mother  died  of  fatigue  on  Our  Spring  joui-ney 
from  the  South." 

"  Dear  Neighbor  Dart,  he  would  envy  you,  if  he 
knew  how  patiently  you  bear  your  ti'oubles;  how 
tenderly  you  help  us  with  oiir  little  ones  how 
cheerfully  you  serve  your  friends;  how  faithfully 
you  love  your  lost  mate ;  and  how  trustfully  you 
wait  to  meet  him  again  in  a  lovelier  country  than 
the  South." 

As  Skim  spoke,  she  leaned  down  from  her  nest 
to  kiss  her  neighbor;  and  as  the  little  beaks  met, 
the  other  birds  gave  a  grateful  and  approving  mur- 
mur; for  Neighbor  Dai-t  was  much  beloved  by  all 
the  inhabitants  of  Twittertown. 
12 


178  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

"  I  for  my  part,  don't  envy  M/n,"  said  Gossip 
Wing,  who  was  fond  of  speaking  her  mind.  "  Men 
and  women  call  themselves  Superior  Beings ;  but 
upon  my  word,  I  think  they  are  vastly  inferior  to 
us.  Now  look  at  that  Man,  and  see  how  he  wastes 
his  life.  There  never  was  any  one  with  a  better 
chance  for  doing  good;  and  yet  he  mopes  and 
dawdles  his  time  away  most  shamefully." 

"  Ah!  he  has  had  a  great  sorrow,  and  it  is  hard 
to  be  gay  with  a  heavy  heart,  an  empty  home ;  so 
don't  be  too  severe,  Sister  Wing,"  and  the  white 
tie  of  the  little  widow's  cap  was  stirred  by  a  long 
sigh,  as  Mrs.  Dart  glanced  up  at  the  nook  where 
her  nest  once  stood. 

"No,  my  dear,  I  won't;  but  really  I  do  get  out 
of  patience  when  I  see  so  much  real  misery  which 
that  Man  might  help,  if  he'd  only  forget  himself 
a  little.  It's  my  oi)inion  he'd  be  much  happier 
than  he  now  is,  wandering  about  with  a  dismal 
face  and  a  sour  temper." 

"I  cjuite  agree  with  you;  and  I  dare  say  he'd 
thank  any  one  for  telling  him  how  he  may  find 
comfort.  Poor  soul!  I  wish  he  could  understand 
me;  for  I  sympathize  with  him,  and  would  gladly 
help  him  if  I  could." 

And,  as  she  spoke,  kind-hearted  Widow  Dart 
skimmed  by  him  with  a  friendly  chirp,  which  did 
comfort  him ;  for— being  a  poet — he  could  under- 
stand them,  and  lay  listening,  well  pleased  while 
the  little  gossips  chattered  on  together. 

"  I  am  so  tried  at  home  just  now,  that  I  know 
nothing  of  what  is  going  on,  except  the  bits  of 
news  Skim  brings  me;  so  I  enjoy  your  chat  im- 
mensely, I'm  interested  in  your  views  on  this 
subject,  and  beg  you'll  tell  me  what  you'd  have 
that  Man  do  to  better  liimself,"  said  Mrs.  Skim, 
settling  herself  on  her  eggs  with  an  attentive  air. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I'll  tell  you;  for  I've  seen  a 
deal  of  the  world,  and  any  one  is  welcome  to  my 
experience,"  replied  Mrs.  Wing,  in  an  important 
manner;  for  she  was  proud  of  her  "  views,"  and 
very  fond  of  talking.  "  In  my  daily  flights  about 
the  place,  I  see  a  great  deal  of  poverty  and  trouble, 
and  often  wish  I  could  lend  a  hand.  Now  this 
Man  has  iilentyof  money  and  time;  and  he  might 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.  179 

do  more  good  than  I  can  tell,  if  he'd  only  set 
about  it.  Because  he  is  what  they  call  a  Poet  is 
no  reason  he  sliould  go  moaning  up  and  down,  as 
if  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  make  songs.  We  sing, 
but  we  work  also ;  and  are  wise  enough  to  see  the 
necessity  of  both,  thank  goodness!  " 

"Yes,  indeed  we  do,"  cried  all  the  birds  in  a 
chorus;  for  several  more  had  stopped  to  hear  what 
was  going  on. 

"  Xow,  what  I  say  is  this,"  continued  Mrs. 
Wing,  impressively:  "  If  I  wei-e  that  Man,  I'd 
make  myself  useful  at  once.  There  is  poor  little 
Will  getting  more  and  more  lame  every  day 
because  his  mother  can't  send  him  where  he  can 
be  cured.  A  trifle  of  that  Man's  money  would  do 
it,  and  he  ought  to  give  it.  Old  Father  Winter  is 
half-starved,  alone  there  in  his  miserable  hovel, 
and  no  one  thinks  of  the  good  old  man.  Why 
don't  that  lazy  creature  take  him  home,  and  care 
for  him,  the  little  while  he  has  to  live  ?  Pretty 
Nell  is  working  day  and  night  to  support  her 
father,  and  is  too  proud  to  ask  help,  though  her 
health  and  courage  are  going  fast.  The  Man 
might  make  her's  the  gayest  heart  alive  by  a  little 
help.  There  in  a  lonely  garret  lives  a  young  man 
studying  his  life  away,  longing  for  books  and  a 
teacher.  The  Man  has  a  library  full,  and  might 
keep  the  poor  boy  from  despair  by  a  little  help 
and  a  friendly  word.  He  mourns  for  his  own  lost 
baby:  I  advise  him  to  adopt  the  orphan  whom 
nobody  will  own,  and  who  lies  wailing  all  day  on 
the  poor-house  floor.  Yes:  if  he  wants  to  forget 
sorrow  and  find  peace,  let  him  fill  his  empty 
heart  and  home  with  such  as  tliese,  and  life  won't 
seem  dark  to  him  any  more." 

"  Dear  me!  how  well  you  express  yourself.  Mrs. 
Wing!  it's  quite  a  pleasure  to  hear  you;  and  I 
licartily  wish  some  persons  could  hear  you;  it 
would  do  'em  a  deal  of  good,"  said  Mrs.  Skim; 
while  her  husband  gave  an  approving  nod,  as  he 
dived  off  the  beam,  and  vanished  through  the  ojien 
doors. 

"  I  know  it  would  comfort  that  Man  to  do  these 
things;  for  I  have  tried  the  same  cure  in  my  small 
wav.  and  found  great   satisfaction  in    it,"  began 


180  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

little  Madam  Dart,  in  lier  soft  voice;  but  Mrs. 
Wing  broke  in,  saying,  with  a  pious  expression  of 
countenance. 

"  I  flew  into  church  one  day,  and  sat  on  the  or- 
gan, enjoying  the  music,  for  every  one  was  sing- 
ing, and  I  joined  in,  though  I  didn't  know  the 
air.  Opposite  me  were  two  great  tablets  with 
golden  letters  on  them.  I  can  read  a  little — thanks 
to  my  friend,  the  Learned  Eaven — and  so  I  spelt 
out  some  of  the  words.  One  was  'Love  thy 
Neighbor;'  and,  as  I  sat  there,  looking  down  on 
the  people,  I  wondered  how  they  could  see  those 
words  week  after  week,  and  yet  jiay  so  little  heed 
to  them.  Goodness  knows,  I  don't  consider  my- 
self a  perfect  Bird;  far  from  it;  for  I  know  I  am 
a  poor,  erring  Fowl ;  but  I  may  say  I  do  love  my 
Neighbor,  though  I  am  an  Inferior  Creature." 
And  Mrs.  Wing  bridled  up,  as  if  she  enjoyed  the 
phrase  immensely. 

"  Indeed  you  do,  Gossip,"  cried  Dart  and  Skim; 
foy  Wing  was  an  excellent  Bird,  in  spite  of  the 
good  opinion  she  had  of  herself. 

"Thank  you:  Well,  then,  such  being  the  known 
fact,  I  may  give  advice  on  the  subject,  as  one  hav- 
ing authority;  and,  if  it  were  possible,  I'd  give 
that  Man  a  bit  of  my  mind." 

"You  have,  Madam,  you  have;  and  I  shall  not 
forget  it.  Thank  you,  Neighbors,  and  Good- 
Night,"  said  the  Man,  as  he  left  the  barn,  with 
the  first  smile  on  his  face  which  it  had  worn  for 
many  days. 

"Mercy  on  us!  I  do  believe  the  creature  heard 
every  word  we  said,"  cried  Mrs.  AVing,  nearly 
tuml)lmg  off  her  beam,  in  her  suri>rise. 

"  He  certainly  did;  so  I'm  glad  J  was  guarded 
in  my  remarks,"  replied  Mrs.  Skim,  laughing  at 
her  neighbor's  dismay. 

*'  Dear  me!  dear  me!  what  did  I  say  ?"  cried 
Mrs.  Wing  in  a  great  twitter. 

"  You  spoke  with  more  than  your  usual  lilunt- 
ness,  and  some  of  your  expressions  were  rather 
strong,  I  must  confess;  but  I  don't  think  any  harm 
will  come  of  it.  We  are  of  too  little  consequence 
for  our  criticisms  or  opinions  to  annoy  Him," 
said  Mrs.  Dart,  consolingly. 


JOSEPH  ALDEN.  181 

"  1  don't  know  that,  Ma'am,"  returned  Mrs. 
Wing  sharply;  for  she  was  much  ruflied  and  out 
of  temper,  "  A  Cat  may  look  at  a  King;  and  a 
Bird  may  teach  a  Man,  if  the  Bird  is  the  wisest. 
He  may  destroy  my  nest,  and  take  my  life ;  but  I 
feel  that  I  have  done  my  duty,  and  shall  meet 
affliction  with  a  firmness  which  will  be  an  example 
to  that  indolent,  ungrateful  Man." 

In  spite  of  her  boasted  lirnniess,  Mrs.  Wing- 
dropped  her  voice,  and  peeped  over  the  beam,  to 
be  sure  the  Man  was  gone  before  she  called  him 
names;  and  then  flew  away,  to  discover  what  he 
meant  to  do  about  it. — Jlondny  Glories. 

ALDEN,  Joseph,  D.D.  ,  an  American  edu- 
cator and  author,  born  in  Greene  County, 
N.  Y.,  in  1807.  He  graduated  at  Union  Col- 
lege in  1828;  studied  theology  at  Princeton 
Seminary,  N.  J. ;  was  a  college  tutor  for  two 
years;  and  in  1834  was  ordained  pastor  of  a 
Congregational  church  in  Massachusetts. 
From  1835  to  1853  he  was  Professor  of  Rhet- 
oric in  Williams  College,  Mass. ;  from  1852  to 
1857  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  Lafay- 
ette College,  Penn. ;  from  1857  to  1867,  Presi- 
dent of  Jefferson  CoUege,  Penn. ;  and  in  1867 
was  made  Principal  of  the  .State  Normal 
School  at  Albany,  N.  Y.  He  contributed 
largely  to  periodicals,  especially  to  the  New 
York  Ohserver,  of  which  he  was  for  a  time 
Editor.  His  separate  volumes,  most  of  which 
were  designed  primarily  for  the  young  and 
especially  for  Sunday  Schools,  number  not 
less  than  300.  Among  his  tales  are  Alice 
Gordon,  or  the  Uses  of  Orx)hanage ;  Elizabeih 
Benton,  or  Religion  in  Connection  icith  Fash- 
ionable Life;  The  Lawyer's  Daughter ;  and 
The  Schoolmistress.  He  has  also  w^ritten, 
The  Example  of  Washington  :  The  Patriofs 
Fireside,  etc.  His  most  important  work, 
however,  is  the  Elements  of  Litellectual  Phi- 
losophy. 


182  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDIIICH. 

CONCEPTIONS   OF   THE   INFINITE. 

There  has  been  a  great  dea,l  written  about  the 
Absolute  and  the  Infinite  which  conveys  no  mean- 
insf  to  such  as  have  not  the  faculty  of  understand- 
ing the  unintelligible.     For  example,  Mansel  says: 
"  That  which  is  conceived  of  as  absolute  and  in- 
finite must  be  conceived  of  as  combining  within 
itself  the  sum  not  only  of  all  actual  but  of  all  pos- 
sible modes  of  being.'' — There  is  no  such  thing  as 
a  General  Infinite.     There   are   infinite  things  or 
attributes,  just    as  there  are    true    propositions. 
But  the  Infinite  and  the  True  are  not  independent 
entities.     We  cognize  infinite  objects,  and  can  thus 
form  an  abstract  idea  of  Infinity.     The  idea  is  not 
definable.     As  we  say,  "Truth  is  that   in   which 
all  true   proportions  agree,"  so  we  may  say,  that 
the  Infinite  is  that  in   which   all  infinite   objects 
agree.     That  is  infinite  which  has  no  limit.     That 
which   we   cognize   as   limitless   is  to  us  infinite. 
We  must  distinguish  between  the  Infinite  and  the 
Indefinite.     God's  wisdom  is  infinite ;  it  transcends 
all   our  powers  of  expression.     So  of  his  Mercy 
and  his  Benevolence.     Infinite  existence  is  ever- 
lasting existence.     When  we  speak  of  God  as  the 
Infinite  Existence,  we  mean  that  all  his  attributes 
are  infinite.     The  human  mind  can  form  no  ade- 
quate apprehension  of  infinite  things;  and  yet  it 
is  not,  properly  speaking,  a  negative  apprehension 
which  we  have  of  it.     The   fact  that  we   cannot 
know  everything  about  a  subject  or  object  does 
not  prove  that  we  cannot  know  anything  about 
it.      The  fact  that  we  cannot  by  searching  find 
out  God  to  perfection,  does  not  prove  that  we  can- 
not know  many  things  respecting  him.     God  is 
infinite:  that  is,  His  existence  and  attributes  are 
without  limit — transcend  all  our  power  of  appre- 
hension.    We  know  notliing  that  can  be  added  to 
them. — Elements  of  Inidli'rtual  Philompluj. 

ALDRICH,  Thomas  Bailey,  an  American 
literateur,  born  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H..  Nov. 
11,  1836.  He  entered  the  counting-house  of 
his  uncle,  a  New  York  merchant,  where  he 
remained  three  years ;  began  to  write  for  va- 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDIMCII.  183 

rious  periodicals,  and  subsequently  acted  as 
proof  reader  in  a  printing  office.  He  became 
connected  with  the  Boston  Atlantic  Monthly, 
of  which  he  was  made  editor  in  1883.  Most 
of  his  numerous  poems  and  prose  tales  ap- 
peared originally  in  j)eriodicals,  and  were  af- 
terwards collected  into  volumes.  In  1874  he 
brought  together  in  one  small  volume,  under 
the  title  of  Cloth  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems, 
such  of  his  poetical  works  as  he  then  cared 
to  perpetuate,  prefixed  by  a  Prelude,  and  clos- 
ing with  an  Envoie. 

PKELUDE   TO   OLOTU  OF   GOLD. 

You  ask  me  it'  by  rule  or  no 

Our  many-colored  songs  are  wrought? — 

Upon  the  cunning  loom  of  thought, 
We  weave  our  fancies  so  and  so.  , 

The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 

Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  weaves 

A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves 
With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 

With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold: 
When  woven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 

Nor  time  can  make  its  colors  fade. 

L' ENVOIE   TO   CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

This  is  my  youth — its  hopes  and  dreams., 
How  strange  and  shadowy  it  all  seems 

After  so  many  j^ears ! 
Turning  the  pages  idly,  so, 
I  look  with  smiles  upon  the  woe, 

Upon  the  joy  with  tears! 

Go,  little  Book.     The  old  and  wise 
Will  greet  thee  with  suspicious  eyes. 

With  stare  or  furtive  frown ; 
But  here  and  there  some  golden  maid 
May  like  thee: — Thou'lt  not  be  afraid 

Of  yovmg  eyes,  blue  or  browu. 

To  such  a  one,  perchance,  thou'lt  sing 
As  clearly  as  a  bird  of  spring. 


184  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDPJCIL 

Hailing  tlie  apple-blossom: 
And  she  will  let  thee  make  thy  nest. 
Perhaps,  within  her  snowy  breast. 

Go;  rest  thou  iu  her  bosom. 

THE    CRESCENT   AND  THE   CROSS. 

Kind  was  my  friend  who  in  the  Eastern  land 
'xemembcred  me  with  such  a  j^racious  hand, 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  haughty  bosom  of  a  queen. 

IS'o  more  it  sinks  and  rises  with  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turbaned  slave  shall  envy  and  adors- 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  cedar,  brought  from  Lebanon; 

One  borne,  perchance,  by  some  i)ale  monk  who  trod 

The  desert  to  Jerusalem — and  his  God ! 

Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 
Each  meaning  something  to  our  human  needs; 
Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 
By  tears,  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom,  and  death! 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me! 
The  waning  crescent  lacks  divinity: 
It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 
Of  women  shut  in  dim  se>-aglios. 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me 
And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom  :^ 
The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  To'nbi 

A  TUKKISn   LEGEND. 

A  certain  Pasha,  dead  five  thousand  years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden  tears, 

And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate 
Deeply  engraven,  "  Only  God  is  great." 

So  these  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice, 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbican. 
Saluted  each  returning  ca^-avan. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  185 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.     Every  gust 

Lifts,  with  crisp  leaves,  the  unknown  Pasha's  dust; 

And  ali  is  ruin— save  one  wrinkled  gate 
Whereon  is  written,  "  Only  God  is  great." 

LITTLE   MAUD. 
I. 

O  where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling,  the  daintiest 

darling  of  all? 
Where  is  the  voice  on  the  stairway,  where  is  the 

voice  in  the  hall? 
The  little  short  steps  in   the  entry,  the  silvery 

laugh  in  the  hall? 
Where   is   our  dainty,  our   darling,  the   daintiest 

darling  of  all? 

Little  Maud? 

II. 

The  peaches  are  ripe  in  the  orchard;  the  apricots 

ready  to  fall; 
And  the  grapes  reach  up  to  the  sunshine  over  the 

garden  wall. 
O  rosebud  of  women!  where  are  you?    (She  never 

replies  to  our  call!) 
Where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling,  the  daintiest 

darling  of  all. 

Little  Maud? 


Fantastic  sleep  is  busy  with  my  eyes: 

I  seem  in  some  vast  solitude  to  stand 

Once  ruled  of  Clieops:  upon  either  hand 

A  dark  illimitable  desert  lies, 

Sultry  and  still — a  realm  of  mysteries; 

A  wide-browed  Sphinx,  half  buried  in  the  sand. 

With  orldess  sockets  stares  across  the  land, 

The  woefullest  thing  beneath  these  brooding  skies, 

Where  all  is  woeful,  weird-lit  vacancy. 

'Tis  neither  midnight,  twilight,  nor  moonrise. 

Lo!  while  I  gaze  beyond  the  vast  sand-sea 

The  nebulous  clouds  arc  downward  slowly  drawn, 

Aud  one  bleared  star,  faint-glimmering  like  a  bee, 

Is  shut  in  the  rosy  outstretched  hand  of  Dawn. 


180  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

EDGAIl  ALLAN  POK. 

He  walked  with  demons,  ghouls,  and  things 

Unsightly — terrors  and  despairs — 

And  ever  in  the  blackened  airs 
A  dismal  raven  liapt  its  wings. 

He  wasted  richest  gifts  of  God; 
But  here's  the  limit  of  his  woes: — 
Sleep  rest  him !    See  above  him  grows 

The  very  grass  whereon  he  trod. 

Behold !  within  this  narrow  grave 

Is  shut  the  mortal  part  of  him. 

Behold !  he  could  not  wholly  dim 
The  gracious  genius  Heaven  gave; — 

For  strains  of  music  here  and  there, 
Weird  murmurings,  vague,  prophetic  tones, 
Are  blown  across  the  silent  zones 

Forever  in  the  midnight  air. 

BECEMUEK. 

Only  the  sea  intoning,  only  the  wainscot-mouse. 
Only  the  wild  wind  moaning  over  the  lonely  house. 

Darkest  of  all  Decembers  ever  my  life  has  known. 
Sitting  here  by  the    embers    stunned,   helpless, 
alone ; 

Dreaming  of  two  graves  lying  out  in  the  damp  an<l 

chiU,^ 
One  where  the  buzzard,  flying,  pauses  at  Malvern 

Hill; 

The  other — Alas!  the  pillows  of  that  uneasy  bed 
Rise  and  fall  with   the   billows   over  our  sailor's 
head. 

Theirs   the   heroic    story: — Died,  by  frigate   and 

town ! 
Theirs  the  Calm  and  the  Glory,  theirs  the  Cross 

and  the  Crown. 

Mine  to  linger  and  languish  here   by  the   wintry 

sea. 
Ah.  faint  heart!  in  thy  anguish,  what  is  there  left 

to  thee? 

Only  the  sea  intoning,  only  the  wainscot-mouse, 
Only  the  wild  wind  moaning  over  the  lonely  house. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDKICH.  187 

BY   TllK   POTOMAC. 

Tlie  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 

By  the  Potomac!  and  the  crisjj  ground-llower 

Lifts  its  hkie  cnp  to  catch  the  passing  shower; 

The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 

Its  tangled  gonfalons  ahove  onr  hraves. 

Hark,  what  a  hurst  of  music  from  yon  hower! — 

The  Southern  nightingale  that,  hour  by  hour, 

In  its  melodious  madness  raves. — 

Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 

With  what  sweet  voices,  Nature  seeks  to  screen 

The  awful  crime  of  this  distracted  land; 

Sets  her  birds  singing,  while  she  spreads  her  green 

Mantle  of  velvet  where  the  murdered  lie. 

As  if  to  hide  the  horror  from  God's  eye. 

BEFORE   THE   RAIN. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 

A  spirit  on  tender  robes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens ; 

Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  llowcrs; 
Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea. 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the-  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves;  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind ;  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  clouds  of  rain ! 

AFTER  THE   RAIN. 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  jiours  an  airy  Hood; 
.     And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane. 

The  ancient  cross  is  l>athed  in  blood. 

Fi"om  out  the  drip]iing  ivy  leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 

A  dormer,  facing  westward,  locjks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye. 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  Sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disc,  a  speck: 

And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


188  AllCHIBALU  ALEXANDER. 

Some  of  the  poems  of  Mr.  Aldricli  are  of 
considerable  length.  Thus  Baby  Bell  con- 
tains about  100  lines;  The  Metempsychosis 
somewhat  more;  and  Judith,  some  300  Unes. 
His  prose  novelettes  are  numerous.  Among 
them  are :  Daisys  Necklace ;  Out  of  his  Head ; 
The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy ;  Margery  Daw ;  Pru- 
dence Palfrey;  The  Queen  of  Sheba ;  The  Still- 
water Tragedy. 

ALEXANDER,  Archibald,  D.D.,  an  Amer- 
ican clergyman  and  scholar,  born  in  Rock- 
bridge County,  Virginia,  in  1772,  died  at 
Princeton.  N.  J.,  in  1851.  He  was  educated 
at  Hampden  Sydney  College ;  studied  theol- 
ogy, and  was  licensed  to  preach  in  1791.  He 
Avas  chosen  President  of  Hampden  Sydney 
College  in  1796 ;  became  pastor  of  a  Presby- 
terian church  in  Philadelphia  in  1807 ;  and  in 
1813,  upon  the  organization  of  the  Presbyte- 
rian Theological  Seminary  at  Princeton,  was 
appointed  Professor  of  Theology  in  that  insti- 
tution, retaining  that  position  until  his  death. 
He  wrote.  Outlines  of  the  Evidences  of  Christi- 
anity: Treatise^on  the  Canon  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments:  History  of  the  Patriarchs  ; 
History  of  the  Israelites  ;  Annuls  of  the  Jeicish 
Nation ;  Advice  to  a  Young  Christian  ;  Bible 
Dictionary:  Counsels  from  the  Aged  to  the 
Young;  Thoughts  on  Religious  Experience; 
African  Colonization ;  History  of  the  Log  Col- 
lege ;  and  a  work  on  Moral  Science,  which 
was  published  after  his  death.  Of  this  laiit 
work  the  Westminster  Review  says: 

"■  Though  not  aspiiiii.tj  to  the  dignity  of  a  trea- 
tise, it  forms  a  most  compact  and  convenient 
text-book.  It  is  a  cahn,  clear  stream  of  abstract 
reasoning,  flowing  from  a  tlioughtful,  well-in- 
structed mind,  without  any  parade  of  logic,  but 
with  an  intuitive  simplicity  and  directness  which 
gives  an  almost  axiomatic  force.  From  this  char- 
acteristic we  could  almost  have  conjectured  what 


JAME.S  AVADDELL  ALEXANimtl.        189 

is  stated  in  the  Preface,  that  the  study  of  ethical 
l^hilosophy  was  the  author's  favorite  pursuit  for 
at  least  threescore  years ;  and  that  for  forty  years 
it  formed  a  brancli  of  academical  instruction  in 
couuection  with  his  theological  course." 

ALEXANDER,  James  Waddell,  D.D.,  son 
of  Rev.  Archibald  Alexander,  born  in  Louisa 
County,  Virginia,  in  1804,  died  in  1859.  He 
graduated  at  Princeton  College  in  1820 ;  was  a 
tutor  there  until  1827,  when  he  became  pastor 
of  a  Presbyterian  church  at  Charlotte  Court 
House,  Ya.,  and  in  1829  of  one  at  Trenton, 
N.  J.  In  1833-34  he  was  Professor  of  Belles- 
Lettres  and  Latin  in  Princeton  College ;  was 
pastor  of  the  Duane  Street  Presbyterian 
church,  New  York,  1844-49;  Professor  of 
Ecclesiastical  History,  Church  Government, 
and  Sacred  Rhetoric  in  Princeton  Theological 
Seminary,  1849-51.  In  1851  the  Duane  Street 
chiu-ch  was  reorganized  as  the  Fifth  Avenue 
church.  New  York,  and  he  again  became  its 
pastor,  a  position  which  he  held  until  his 
death.  He  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  re- 
ligious and  literary  periodicals;  and  wrote 
many  books,  among  which  are  more  than 
thirty  small  volumes  for  the  American  Sun- 
day School  Union;  Memoirs  of  Rev.  Archi- 
bald Alexander,  his  father;  Consolation; 
Sacramental  Discourses ;  Thoughts  on  Family 
Worship;  Plain  Words  to  a  Young  Communi- 
cant; Thoughts  on  Preaching ;  Discourses  on 
Christian  Faith  and  Practice  ;  and  The  Amer- 
ican Mechanic  and  Worhingman's  Compan- 
ion. 

ON   EXTEMPOKANEOUS   PREACHING. 

"  You  have  expressed;"  he  says,  addressing  a 
young  preacher,  "  fears  as  to  your  ever  becoming 
an  extemporaneous  preacher.  Many  who  have 
excelled  in  this  way,  have  had  fears  like  yours. 
My  counsel  is,  that  you  boldly  face  the  obstacles 
and  begin  ex  abrupt o.     The  longer  yon  allow  your- 


190       JAMES  WADDELL  ALEXANDER. 

self  to  become  fixed  in  another  and  exclusive 
habit,  the  greater  will  be  your  difficulty  in  throw- 
ing it  aside.  Some  of  the  authors  Avhom  I  respect 
recommend  a  beginning  by  gradual  approaches; 
such  as  committing  to  memory  a  part,  and  then 
going  on  from  that  impulse.  This  is  what  Cicero 
illustrates  by  the  fine  comparison  of  a  boat  which 
is  propelled  by  its  original  impulse,  and  comes  up 
to  the  shore  even  when  the  oars  are  taken  in. 
Others  tell  you  to  throw  in  passages  extemporane- 
ously amidst  your  written  materials ;  as  one  who 
swims  with  corks,  but  occasionally  leaves  them. 
Doubtless  many  have  profited  by  such  devices; 
yet  if  called  on  to  prescribe  the  very  best  method, 
I  should  not  prescribe  these.  Again,  therefore,  I 
say  begin  at  once.  Wlien  one  once  iuqidred  of  the  , 
celebrated  Gilbert  Stuart  how  young  persons 
should  be  taught  to  paint,  he  replied:  "Just  as 
puppies  are  taught  to  swim — chuck  them  in!" 
No  one  learns  to  swim  in  the  sea  of  i^reaching 
without  going  into  the  water. 

As  I  am  perfectly  convinced  that  any  man  can 
learn  to  preach  extempore  who  can  talk  extem- 
])ore — always  provided  that  he  has  somewhat  to 
say — my  earnest  advice  to  you  is  that  you  never 
make  the  attempt  without  being  sure  of  your  mat- 
ter. Of  all  the  defects  of  utterauce  I  have  ever 
known,  the  most  serious  is  having  nothing  to 
utter.  In  all  your  experiments,  therefore,  secure 
by  pre-meditation  a  good  amount  of  material,  and 
let  it  be  digested  and  arranged  in  your  head 
according  to  an  exact  jiartition  and  a  logical  con- 
catenation. The  more  completely  this  latter  pro- 
vision is  attended  to,  the  less  will  l)e  the  danger  of 
losing  your  self-])Ossession  oi-  your  chain  of  ideas. 
Common  sense  must  admit  that  the  great  thing  is 
to  liave  the  matter.  All  speaking  whith  does  not 
presuppose  this  is  a  sham.  And  of  method  it  may 
be  observed  that  even  if  divisions  and  subdivisions 
are  not  formally  announced,  they  should  be 
clearly  before  the  mind,  as  affording  a  most  im- 
portant clew  in  the  remembrance  of  what  has 
been  prepared.  If  you  press  me  to  say  which  is 
absolutely  the  best  practice  in  regard  to  "  notes," 
projierly  so  (ailed.  I  unhesitatingly  say,  use  none. 


JOSEni  ADDLSON  ALEXANDER.        101 

Carry  no  scrap  of  writing  into  the  pulpit.  Let 
your  scheme,  with  all  its  branches,  be  written  on 
your  mental  tablet. 

Do  not  prepare  your  words.  If  you  would  avail 
yourself  of  the  plastic  power  of  excitement  in  a 
great  assembly  to  create  for  the  gushing  thought 
a  mould  of  litting  diction,  you  will  not  spend  a 
moment  on  the  words;  following  Horace:  "  Ver- 
baque  provlsam  rem  non  invita  sequentur."  Noth- 
ing more  effectually  ruiiies  tluit  composure  of 
mind  which  the  speaker  needs,  than  to  have  a  dis- 
jointed train  of  half-remembered  words  lloating 
in  the  mind.  For  which  reason  few  persons  have 
ever  been  successful  in  a  certain  method  which  I 
have  seen  proposed,  to  wit:  that  a  young  speaker 
should  prepare  his  manuscript,  give  it  a  thorough 
reading  beforehand,  and  then  preach  with  a  gen- 
eral recollection  of  its  contents.  The  result  is  that 
the  mind  is  in  a  libration  and  pother  betwixt  the 
word  in  the  paper  and  the  probably  better  word 
which  comes  to  the  tip  of  the  tongue.  Generally 
speaking,  the  best  possible  word  is  the  one  which 
is  born  of  the  thought  in  the  presence  of  the 
assembly.  And  the  less  you  think  about  words 
as  a  separate  affair,  the  better  they  will  be.— 
Thoughts  on  Preaching. 

ALEXANDER,  Joseph  Addison,  D.D.,  son 
of  Rev.  Archibald  Alexander,  born  in  Phila- 
delphia in  1809,  died  in  I860.  He  graduated 
at  Princeton  College,  in  1826,  and  was  Adjunct 
Professor  of  Ancient  Languages  and  Litera- 
ture, 1830-33.  He  was  a  Professor  in  Prince- 
ton Theological  Seminary  from  1851  until  his 
death,  liolding  successively  the  chairs  of  Ori- 
ental and  Biblical  Literature,  of  Church  His- 
tory and  Government,  and  of  New  Testament 
Literature  and  Biblical  Greek.  He  published 
two  volumes  of  Sermons  ;  Essays  on  the  Prim- 
itive Church  Offices;  Commentaries onx&xionfi 
books  of  the  New  Testament;  The  Psalms 
Translated  and  Explained ;  and  Isaiah  Trans- 
lated and  Explained.  The  last  two  being  his 
most  notable  ^vorks. 


192       JOSEPH  ADDISON  ALEXANDER. 

THE  DOWNFALL  OF  BABYLONIA:   Isciiah  XX. 

3.  And  it  shall  be  (or  come  to  pass)  in  the  day  of 
Jehovah's  causing  thee  to  rest  from  thy  toil  (or  suf- 
fering), and  from  thy  commotion  (or  disquietude), 
and  from  the  hard  service  lohich  lous  wrought  by  thee 
(oY  imposed  upon  thee).  In  this  verse  and  the  fol- 
lowing context,  the  Prophet,  in  order  to  reduce  the 
general  promise  of  the  foregoing  verse  to  a  moi'e 
graphic  and  impressive  form,  recurs  to  the  dov?n- 
fall  of  Babylon  as  the  beginning  of  the  series  of 
deliverances  which  he  had  predicted,  and  describes 
the  effect  upon  those  most  concerned,  by  putting 
into  the  mouth  of  Israel  a  song  of  triumph  over 
their  oppressor.  This  is  luiiversally  admitted  to  be 
one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  Hebrew,  and  indeed 
of  ancient  composition. 

4.  Tlien  shall  thou  raise  this  song  over  the  king  of 
Babylon,  and  say,  How  hath  the  oppressor  ceased, 
the  golden  [city]  ceased  !  Tlie  meaning  of  the  first 
clause  is,  of  course,  that  Israel  would  have  occa- 
sion to  express  such  feelings.  The  King  here  in- 
troduced is  an  ideal  personage,  wliose  downfall 
represents  that  of  the  Bal)ylonian  monarchy. 

5.  This  verse  contains  tlie  answer  to  the  question 
in  the  one  before  it.  Jehovah  hath  broken  the  staff 
of  the  toicked,  the  rod  of  the  rulers.  The  rod  and 
staff  are  common  figures  for  dominion;  and  tlieir 
being  broken,  for  its  destruction. 

6.  Smiting  nationsin  anger  by  a  stroke  without  ces- 
sation, riding  nations  in  wrath  by  a  rule  ivithout  re- 
straint (literally,  which  he  or  one  indefinitely,  did 
not  restrain).  The  participles  may  agree  gram- 
matically either  with  tlie  rod  or  with  the  King  who 
wields  it.  The  Englisli  Version  applies  the  last 
clause  only  to  the  punisliment.  But  the  great 
majority  both  of  the  oldest  and  the  latest  writers 
make  the  whole  descriptive  of  the  Babylonian  tyr- 
anny. 

7.  At  rest,  quiet,  is  the  luhole  earth.  They  burst 
forth  into  singing  (or  a  shout  of  joy).  There  is  no 
inconsistency  between  the  clauses,  as  the  first  is 
not  descriptive  of  silence,  but  of  tranquillity  and 
rest.  "  The  land  had  rest"  is  a  phrase  employed 
in  the  Book  of  Judges  to  describe  the  condition  of 
the    country  after  a  great   national   deliverance. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  ALEXANDER.       193 

Tlic  verb  to  burst  is  peculiarly  descriptive  of  an 
eliuUition  of  joy  long  suppressed,  or  suddenly  suc- 
ceeding grief. 

8.  Not  only  the  earth  and  its  inhabitants  take 
part  in  this  triumphant  song  or  shout,  but  the  trees 
of  the  forest.  Also  {or  ecenl  the  cypresses  rejoice 
with  respect  to  thee,  [the  cedars  of]  Lebanon  [say- 
ing], Now  tJiat  thou  art  fallen  (literally  lain  down), 
the  feller  (or  woodman,  literally  i/ie  cutter)  shall  not 
come  up  against  us.  Now  that  we  are  safe  from 
thee,  we  fear  no  other  enemy.  As  to  the  meaning 
of  the  figiires  in  this  verse,  there  are  various  opin- 
ions; but  the  only  one  that  seems  consistent  with  a 
pure  taste  is  that  which  supposes  this  to  be  merely 
a  part  of  one  great  picture,  representing  universal 
nature  as  rejoicing.  Both  here  and  elsewhere  in 
the  sacred  books  inanimate  nature  is  personified, 
and  speaks  herself,  instead  of  being  merely  spoken 
of. 

9.  The  bold  personification  is  now  extended  from 
the  earth  and  its  forest  to  the  invisible  or  lower 
world,  the  inhabitants  of  which  are  represented 
as  aroused  at  the  approach  of  the  new  victim,  and 
as  coming  forth  to  meet  him.  Hell  from  beneath 
is  moved  (or  in  comnwtion)for  thee  {i.e.  on  account  of 
thee)  to  meet  thee[a.t]  thy  comimj;  it  rouses  for  thee 
f/ier/iVmfs  (the  gigantic  shades  or  spectres),  all  the 
chief  ones  (literally  he-goats)  of  the  earth  ;  it  raises 
from  their  thrones  all  the  kings  of  the  nations.  The 
word  translated  Hell  has  already  been  explained 
as  meaning,  first,  a  grave  or  individual  sepulchre, 
and  then  tJie  grave  as  a  general  receptacle,  indis- 
criminately occupied  by  all  the  dead  without  re- 
spect to  character;  as  when  we  say,  the  rich  and 
the  poor,  the  evil  and  the  good  lie  down  together 
in  the  grave,  not  in  a  single  tomb,  which  would  be 
false,  but  underground,  and  in  a  common  state  of 
death  and  burial.  The  English  word  Hell,  though 
now  appropriated  to  the  condition  or  the  place  of 
future  torments,  corresponds,  in  etymology  and 
early  usage,  to  the  Hebrew  word  in  question.  The 
passage  comprehends  two  elements,  and  only  two: 
religious  verities  or  certain  facts,  and  poetical 
embellishments.  It  may  not  be  easy  to  distinguish 
clearly  between  these ;  but  it  is  only  between  these 

13 


194       JOSEPH  ADDISON  ALEXANDER. 

that  we  are  able,  or  have  any  occasion,  to  distm- 
guish.  The  admission  of  a  third,  in  the  shape  of 
superstitious  fables,  is  as  false  in  rhetoric  as  in  the- 
ology. The  shades  or  spectres  of  the  dead  might 
be  conceived  as  actually  larger  than  the  living 
man,  since  that  which  is  shadowy  or  indistinct  is 
commonly  exaggerated  by  the  fancy.  Or  there 
may  be  an  allusion  to  the  Canaanitish  giants  who 
were  exterminated  by  the  divine  command,  and 
might  well  be  chosen  to  represent  the  whole  class 
of  departed  sinners.  Or,  in  this  particular  case,  we 
may  suppose  the  kings  and  great  ones  of  the  earth 
to  be  distinguished  trom  the  vulgar  dead  as  giants 
or  gigantic  forms. 

10.  All  of  them  shall  answer  and  say  to  thee :  Thou 
also  art  made  xveak  as  we,  to  us  art  thou  likened! 
This  is  a  natural  expression  of  surprise  that  one  so 
far  superior  to  themselves  should  now  be  a  partaker 
of  their  weakness  and  disgrace.  The  interrogative 
form  given  to  the  last  clause  by  all  the  English 
versions  is  entirely  arbitrary,  and  much  less  ex- 
pressive than  the  simple  assertion  or  exclamation 
preferred  by  the  oldest  and  the  latest  writers. 

11.  Down  to  the  grave  is  brought  thy  pride  (or 
pomp),  the  misic  of  thy  harps  ;  under  thee  is  spread 
the  worm;  thy  covering  is  vermin.  The  word 
harp  is  evidently  put  for  musical  instruments  or 
music  in  general,  and  this  for  mirth  and  revelry. 
Some  suppose  an  allusion  to  the  practice  of  em- 
balming; but  the  words  seem  naturally  only  to 
suggest  the  common  end  of  all  mankind,  even  the 
greatest  not  excepted.  The  imagery  of  the  clause 
is  vividly  exhibited  in  Gill's  homely  paraphrase : 
"  Nothing  but  worms  over  him  and  worms  under 
him;  worms  his  bed,  and  worms  his  "bed-clothes." 

12.  How  art  thou  fallen  from,  heaven,  Lucifer,  son 
of  the  morning— felled  to  the  ground,  thou  that  didst 
lord  it  over  the  nations.  In  the  two  other  places 
where  the  word  translated  Lucifer  occurs,  it  is  an 
imperative,  signifying  howl.  This  sense  is  also  put 
upon  it  here  by  the  Peshito;  but  all  the  other  an- 
cient versions  and  all  the  leading  Rabbins  make 
the  word  a  noun  denoting  bright  one,  or  more 
specifically  bright  star;  or,  accoixling  to  the  an- 
cients, more    specifically  still,  the  Morning  Star 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  ALEXANDER.        195 

or  harbiiioiM-  of  dayliglit,  called  in  Greek  JTcnii- 
phorus:,  and  in  Latin  Lucifer.  The  same  deriva- 
tion and  interpretation  is  adopted  by  the  latest 
writers.  Some  of  the  Fathers— regarding  Luke 
X.  18,  as  an  explanation  of  this  verse— apply  it  to 
the  fall  of  Satan,  from  which  has  arisen  the  pop- 
ular perversion  of  the  beautiful  name  Lucifer  to 
signify  the  Devil.  In  the  last  clause  the  figure  of 
a  fallen  star  is  exchanged  for  that  of  a  prostrate 
tree.  The  last  clause  is  a  description  of  the  Baby- 
lonian tyranny. 

13.  His  fall  is  aggravated  by  the  impious  extrav- 
agance of  his  pretensions.  And  (yet)  thou  hadst 
said  in  thy  heart  (or  to  thyself),  The  heavens  will  I 
mount  (or  scale),  above  the  stars  of  God  ^i•iU  I  raise 
my  throne,  and  Itoillsit  in  the  mount  of  meetimj  (or 
assembly)  in  the  sides  of  the  North.  He  is  here  de- 
scribed as  aiming  at  equality  with  God  himself. 
There  are  two  distinct  interpretations  of  the  last 
clause;  one  held  by  the  early  writers,  the  other  by 
the  moderns.  According  to  the  first,  it  relates  to 
the  mountain  where  God  agreed  to  meet  the  peo- 
ple, and  to  make  himself  known  to  them  (Ex.  xxv. 
22;  XXIX.  42,  48).  According  to  this  view  of  the 
passage,  it  describes  the  King  of  Babylon  as  insult- 
ing God  by  threatening  to  erect  liis  throne  upon 
those  consecrated  hills,  or  even  affecting  to  be 
God,  like  Antichrist,  of  whom  Paul  says,  with  ob- 
vious allusion  to  this  passage,  that  he  opposeth 
and  exalte th  himself  above  all  that  is  called  God, 
or  is  worshipped,  so  that  he,  as  God,  sitteth  in  the 
temple  of  God.  showing  himself  that  he  is  God  (II. 
Thess.  II.  4).  Whether  the  weight  of  argument 
preponderates  in  favor  of  the  old  interpretation  or 
against  it,  that  of  authority  is  altogether  in  favor 
of  the  new  one.  This  makes  the  Babylonian  speak 
the  language  of  a  heathen,  and  with  reference  to 
the  old  and  wide-spread  oriental  notion  of  a  very 
high  mountain  in  the  extreme  north,  where  the 
gods  were  believed  to  reside,  as  in  the  Greek  Olym- 
pus. This  is  the  Meru  of  the  Hindu  mythology, 
and  the  Elborz  or  Elborj  of  the  old  Zend  books. 
Tlie  meaning  of  the  clause,  as  thus  explained,  is 
"  I  will  take  my  seat  among,  or  above,  the  gods 
upon  their  holy  mountain."     This  interpretation 


196       JOSEPH  ADDISON  ALEXANDER. 

is  supposed  to  be  obscurely  liinted  iu  the  Septiia- 
giiit  version.  x\s  the  expression  is  in  this  case  put 
into  the  moutli  of  a  heathen,  there  is  not  tlie  same 
objection  to  it  as  in  the  other  cases,  where  it  seems 
to  be  recognized  and  sanctioned  by  the  writer. 
The  general  meaning  is  of  course  the  same  on 
either  hypothesis.  The  expression  stars  of  God 
does  not  merely  describe  them  as  his  creatures, 
but  as  being  near  him  in  the  upper  world,  or 
heaven. 

14.  I  will  mount  above  the  cloiul-heUjlds  ;  I  vAll 
make  myself  like  the  Most  Uiyh.  This  is  commonly 
regarded  as  a  simple  expression  of  unbounded  ar- 
rogance ;  but  there  may  be  an  allusion  to  the 
oriental  custom  of  calling  their  kings  gods,  or  to 
the  fact  that  the  Syrian  and  Pha^nician  kings  did 
actually  so  describe  themselves  (Ezek.  xxviii.  2, 
6,  9;  II.  Mace.  ix.  21. )  According  to  some  writers, 
tlie  singular  noun  is  used  here  to  denote  the 
cloiul  of  the  Divine  presence  in  the  tabernacle  and 
temple.  This  would  agree  well  with  the  old  iiiler- 
pretation  of  verse  13;  but  according  to  the  other, 
cloud  is  a  collective,  meaning  clouds  in  general. 

15.  But  instead  of  being  exalted  to  heaven,  thou 
shall  he  hrowjht  down  to  hell,  to  tlir  depths  of  the  pit. 
Against  the  strict  application  of  the  last  clause  to 
the  grave  is  the  subsequent  description  of  the 
royal  body  as  unburied.  But  the  imagery  is  un- 
questionably borrowed  from  the  grave.  Some  un- 
derstand by  sides  the  horizontal  excavations  in  the 
oriental  sepulchres  or  catacombs.  But  according 
to  its  probable  etymology  the  Hebrew  word  does 
not  mean  sides  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  rather 
lander  parts,  ?in(\  i\\en  remote  parts  or  extremities, 
as  it  is  explained  by  the  Targum  here  and  in  verse 
13.  The  specific  reference  may  be  either  to  ex- 
treme height,  extreme  distance,  or  extreme  depth, 
according  to  the  context.  Here  the  last  sense  is 
required  by  the  mention  of  the  }nt;  and  the  word 
is  accordingly  translated  in  the  Vulgate  profun- 
dum. 

16.  Those  seeing  thee  shall  gaze  (or  stare)  at  thee, 
they  shall  look  at  thee  attentively  [and  say].  Is  this 
the  man  that  made  the  earth  shake,  that  made  the 
kingdoms  tremble  ?    The  scene  in  the  other  world 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  ALEXANDER.        197 

is  closed;  and  the  Tropliet,  or  triumphant  Israel, 
is  now  describing;-  wliat  shall  take  place  above 
gi'ound.  The  gazing  mciitioirod  in  the  lirst  clause 
is  not  merely  the  ctt'ect  of  curiosity,  but  of  inci-ed- 
ulous  surprise 

19.  With  the  customary  burial  of  kings  lie  now 
contrasts  the  treatment  of  the  Uabylonian"s  body. 
And  thou  art  cast  out  from  thy  grave,  like  a  despised 
branch,  the  raiment  of  the  slain,  pierced  icith  the 
sword,  (joing  down  to  the  stones  of  the  pit  [even]  like 
a  trampled  carcass  [as  thou  art].  That  the  terms 
of  the  prediction  were  literally  fulfilled  in  the  last 
king  of  Babylon,  is  highly  probable  from  the  hat- 
red with  which  this  impious  king — as  Xenophon 
calls  him — was  regarded  by  the  iieople.  Such  a 
supposition  is  not  precluded  by  the  same  histo- 
rian's statement  that  Cyrus  gave  a  general  per- 
mission to  bury  the  dead,  for  his  silence  in  rela- 
tion to  the  king  rather  favors  the  conclusion  that 
he  was  made  an  exception,  either  by  the  people  or 
the  conqueror.  There  is  no  need,  however,  of 
seeking  historical  details  in  this  passage,  which  is 
rather  a  prediction  of  the  downfall  of  the  empire 
than  the  fall  of  any  individual  monarch. 

20.  Thou  shalt  not  be  joined  vJitJi.  them  [the  other 
kings  of  the  nation]  in  burial,  because  thy  land  thou 
hast  destroyed,  thy  people  thou  hast  slain.  Let  the 
seed  of  evil-doers  be  named  no  more  forever.  The 
only  natural  interpretation  of  these  words  is  that 
which  applies  them  to  the  Babylonian  tyranny  as 
generally  exercised.  The  change  here  brought 
against  the  king  implies  that  his  power  Avas  given 
him  for  a  very  different  purpose.  The  older  writ- 
ers read  the  last  clause  as  a  simple  prediction. 
Thus,  the  English  Version  is  "  The  seed  of  evil- 
doers shall  never  be  renowned."  But  the  later 
writers  seem  to  make  it  more  emphatic  by  giving 
the  future  the  force  of  an  imperative  or  optative. 
Some  of  the  older  writers  understand  the  clause 
to  mean  that  the  names  of  the  wicked  shall  not 
be  perpetuated  by  transniission  in  the  line  of  their 
descendants;  others  explain  the  verb  as  meaning 
"  to  be  called,"  i.e.,  proclaimed  or  celebrated.  It 
is  now  pretty  generally  understood  to  mean,  or  to 
express  !A  wi«h,  that  the  i)osterity  of  such  should 


198  ALFONSO  II.— ALFONSO  X. 

not  be  spoken  of  at  all,  implying-  both  extinction 
and  oblivion. — Isaiah,  Translated  and  Explained, 

ALrONSO  II.,  King  of  Castile,  flourished 
during  the  latter  half  of  tlie  twelfth  century, 
succeeding  to  the  crown  in  11G2,  and  dying  in 
1196.  His  court  was  famous  for  the  trouba- 
dours who  were  draAvn  thither  by  the  mon- 
arch's patronage  of  their  art.  The  King  is 
remembered  for  one  pretty  song : 

PAKTING    AJTD   MEETING. 

Many  tlie  joys  my  heart  has  seen, 

From  varions  sources  flowing: 
From  gardens  gay  and  meadows  green, 

From  leaves  and  flowerets  blowing, 

And  spring  her  fresliening  hours  bestowing. 
All  these  delight  the  bard;  but  here 
Their  power  to  sadden  or  to  cheer 
In  this  my  song  will  not  appear^ 

Where  naught  but  love  is  glowing. 

When  I  remember  our  farewell, 

As  from  her  side  I  parted. 
Sorrow  and  joy  alternate  swell. 

To  think  how,  broken-hearted, 

While  from  her  eyelids  tear-drops  started, 
"  Oh,  soon  "  she  said,  "my  loved  one,  \xere, 
Oh,  soon,  in  pity  re-appear!  " 
Then  back  I'll  fly,  for  none  so  dear 

As  her  from  whom  I  i>arted. 
— Transl.  of  Taylor. 

ALFONSO  X.,  King  of  Castile,  born  in 
1221,  ascended  the  throne  in  1252,  was  deposed 
by  his  son,  Sancho,  in  1282,  and  died  in  1284. 
His  acquaintance  with  geometry,  astronomy, 
and  the  occult  sciences  of  his  time  gained 
for  him  the  appellation  of  el  Sabio,  "the 
!^.earned."  The  works  in  prose  attributed  to 
him,  range  over  a  great  variety  of  subjects, 
historical,  scientific,  and  legal,  although  many 
of  them  were  merely  written  or  compiled  by 
his  order.  He  caused  the  Bible  to  be  trans- 
lated into  Castilian,  and  thereby  performed 


ALFONSO  X.  199 

foi-  the  Spanish  language  a  cervice  very  suni- 
lar  to  that  performed  for  the  German  by  Mar- 
tin Luther.  Mariana  says  of  him :  "He  was 
more  fit  for  letters  than  for  the  government 
of  his  subjects;  he  studied  the  heavens,  and 
watched  the  stars ;  but  forgot  the  earth  and 
lost  his  kingdom."  The  following  letter, 
written  in  1282,  just  at  the  time  of  his  troubles 
with  his  son,  is  said  by  Mr.  Ticknor  to  be  "  a 
favorable  specimen  of  Castilian  prose  at  a 
period  so  early  in  the  history  of  the  lan- 
guage " : 

LETTER  TO   DON  ALONZO   PEREZ   DE   GUZMAN. 

My  affliction  is  great,  because  it  has  fallen  from 
such  a  height  that  it  will  be  seen  from  afar;  and  as 
it  has  fallen  on  me  who  was  the  friend  of  all  the 
world,  so  in  all  the  world  will  men  know  tins  my 
misfortune,  and  its  sharpness,  which  I  suffer  un- 
justly from  my  son,  assisted  by  my  friends  and 
my  prelates,  who,  instead  of  setting  peace  between 
us  have  put  mischief,  not  under  secret  pretences 
or  covertly,  but  with  bold  openness.  And  thus  I 
find  no  protection  in  mine  own  land— neither  de- 
fender nor  champion;  and  yet  have  I  not  deserved 
it  at  their  hands,  unless  it  were  for  the  good  1  have 
done  them. 

And  now,  since  in  mine  own  land  they  deceive, 
who  should  have  served  and  assisted  me,  needful 
is  it  that  I  should  seek  abroad  those  who  wdl 
kindly  care  for  me;  and  since  they  of  Castde  have 
been  false  to  me,  none  can  think  it  ill  that  I  seek 
help  among  those  of  Benamarin.*  For  if  my  sons 
are  mine  enemies,  it  will  not  be  wrong  that  I  take 
mine  enemies  to  be  my  sons;  enemies  accord 
ino-  to  the  law,  but  not  of  free  choice.  And 
such  is  the  good  King  Aben  Jusaf ;  for  I  love  and 
value  him  much,  and  lie  will  not  despise  me  or 
fail  me;  for  we  are  at  ti-uce.  I  know  also  how 
much  you  are  his,  and  how  much  he  loves  you, 
and  with  good  cause;  and  how  much  he  will  do 
through  your  good  counsel.     Therefore  look  not 

*A  race  of  African  princes  who  ruled  in  Morocco,  and  sub- 
jected all  AVeslcrn  Africa. 


200  ALFONSO  X. 

at  the  tilings  past,  but  at  the  things  present.  Con- 
sider of  what  lineage  you  are  come,  and  that  at 
some  time  hereafter  I  may  do  you  good ;  and  that 
if  I  do  it  not,  that  your  own  good  deed  shall  be  its 
own  good  reward. 

Therefore  my  cousin,  Alonzo  Perez  de  Guzman, 
do  so  much  for  me  with  my  lord  and  your  friend 
that,  on  the  pledge  of  the  most  precious  crown 
that  I  have,  and  the  jewels  thereof,  he  should  lend 
me  so  much  as  he  may  hold  to  be  just.  And  if 
you  can  obtain  his  aid,  let  it  not  be  hindered  of 
coming  quickly;  but  rather  think  how  the  good 
friendship  that  may  come  to  me  from  your  lord 
will  be  through  your  hands.  And  so  may  God's 
friendship  be  with  you.— Done  in  Seville,  my  only 
loyal  city,  in  the  tliirtieth  year  of  my  reign,  and  in 
the  first  of  these  my  Troubles.  The  King— Tm/i.sZ. 

of  TlCKNOU. 

The  noblest  monument  which  Alfonso  X. 
reared  to  himself  was  a  code  of  Spanish  Com- 
mon Law,  designated  Las  Siete  Partklas, 
"  The  Seven  Parts,"  from  the  number  of  di- 
visions in  the  work.  Sixty  years  after  the 
death  of  Alfonso,  this  Code  was  proclaimed 
as  of  binding  autiiority  in  all  the  territories 
held  by  the  kings  of  Castile  and  Leon,  and  has 
been  the  basis  of  Spanish  jurisprudence  ever 
since.  "The  Partidas,'''  says  Mr.  Ticknor, 
' '  read  very  little  like  a  collection  of  statutes, 
or  even  like  a  code,  such  as  that  of  Justinian 
or  Napoleon.  .  .  .  They  are  a  kind  of  digested 
result  of  the  opinions  and  reading  of  a  learned 
monarch  and  his  coadjvitors  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  on  the  relative  duties  of  a  king  and 
his  subjects,  or  the  entire  legislation  and  po- 
lice, ecclesiastical,  civil  and  moral,  to  w^hich, 
in  their  judgment,  Spain  should  be  subjected; 
the  whole  interspersed  with  discussions  con- 
cerning the  customs  and  principles  on  which 
•  the  work  itself,  or  some  particular  part  of  it, 
is  founded." 


ALFONSO  X.  201 

UPON  TYIIANTS,    AND  TIIEIK  WAYS. 

A  tyrant  doth  signify  a  cruel  lord  who  hy  force 
or  by  craft  or  by  treachery,  hath  obtained  power 
over  any  realm  or  country;  and  such  men  be  of 
such  nature  that,  when  once  they  have  grown 
strong  in  the  land,  they  love  to  work  their  own 
profit,  though  it  be  in  the  harm  of  the  land,  rather 
than  the  common  profit  of  all;  for  they  always 
live  in  an  ill  fear  of  losing  it.  And  that  they  may 
be  able  to  fulfil  this  their  purpose  unencumbered, 
the  wise  of  old  have  said  that  they  use  their  power 
against  the  people  in  three  manners: 

The  first  is,  that  they  strive  that  those  under 
their  mastery  be  ever  ignorant  and  timorous;  be- 
cause when  they  be  such,  they  may  not  be  bold  to 
rise  against  them,  nor  to  resist  their  wills.  The 
second  is,  that  the  people  be  not  kindly  and  united 
among  themselves,  in  such  wise  that  they  trust 
not  one  another;  for,  while  they  live  in  disagree- 
ment, they  shall  not  dare  to  make  any  discourse 
against  their  lord,  for  fear  faith  and  secrecy  should 
not  be  kept  among  themselves.  And  the  third 
way  is,  that  they  strive  to  make  the  people  poor 
and  to  put  them  upon  great  undertakings,  which 
they  can  never  finish ;  whereby  they  may  have  so 
much  harm,  that  it  may  never  come  into  their 
hearts  to  devise  anything  against  their  i-uler. 
And  above  all  this,  have  tyrants  ever  striven  to 
make  spoil  of  the  strong  and  to  destroy  the  wise; 
and  have  forbidden  fellowship  and  assemblies  of 
men  in  their  land,  and  striven  always  to  know 
what  men  said  or  did;  and  to  trust  their  counsel 
and  the  guard  of  their  persons  rather  to  foreign- 
ers, who  will  serve  at  their  will,  than  to  men  of  the 
land,  who  seiwe  from  oppression. 

And,  moreover,  we  say  that,  though  any  man 
may  have  gained  mastery  of  a  kingdom  by  any 
one  of  the  lawful  means  whereof  we  have  spcjkeu 
in  the  laws  going  before  this,  yet,  if  he  use  his 
power  ill,  in  the  ways  whereof  we  speak  in  this 
law,  him  may  the  people  still  call  tyrant;  for  he 
turneth  his  mastery  which  was  rightful,  into  the 
wrongful,  as  Aristotle  hath  said  in  the  book  in 
which  he  treatcth  of  the  lUdc  and  Government  of 


202  ALFONbO  X. 

Kingdoms.— Partlda  II.,   Tit.  I.,  Transl.  of  Tick- 

NOR. 

THE   EDUCATION   OF   PPaXCESSES. 

The  governesses  are  to  endeavor,  as  much  as 
may  be,  that  the  king's  daughters  be  moderate 
and  seemly  in  eating  and  in  drinking,  and  also  in 
their  carriage  and  dress,  and  of  good  manners  in 
all  things ;  and  especially  that  they  be  not  given 
to  anger:  for  besides  the  wickedness  that  lieth  in 
it,  it  is  the  thing  in  the  world  that  most  easily 
leadeth  women  to  do  ill.  And  they  ought  to  teach 
them  to  be  handy  in  performing  those  works  that 
belong  to  noble  ladies :  for  this  is  a  matter  that 
becometh  them  much,  since  they  obtain  by  it 
cheerfulness  and  a  quiet  spirit;  and  besides,  it 
taketh  away  bad  thoughts,  which  it  is  not  conven- 
ient they  should  have. — Partida  11. ,  Tit.  VII., 
Transl.  of  Ticknor. 

Of  the  poetry  of  Alfonso  X.,  says  Mr.  Tick- 
nor,  "We  possess,  besides  works  of  very 
doubtful  genuineness,  two,  abovit  one  of  wdiich 
there  has  been  little  question,  about  the  other 
none.  Of  his  Cdntigas,  or  '  Chants  '  in  honor 
of  the  Madonna,  there  are  extant  no  less  than 
four  hundred  and  one ;  and  by  his  last  will  he 
directed  these  poems  be  perpetually  chanted 
in  the  church  of  St.  Mary  of  Murcia,  where 
he  desired  his  body  might  be  buried.     Only 

a  few  of  them  have  been  printed Del 

Tesoro.  'The  Treasury,'  is  a  treatise  on  the 
philosopher's  stone,  and  the  greater  portion  of 
it  is  concealed  in  an  unexplained  cipher ;  the 
remainder,  being  partly  in  prose  and  partly  in 
octave  stanzas,  Avhicli  are  the  oldest  extant  in 
Castilian  verse;  but  the  whole  is  worthless 
and  its  gemiineness  doubtf ul : "— an  opinion 
from  which  we  dissent. 

THE   philosopher's   STONE. 

Fame  brought  this  strange  intelligence  to  me, 
That  in  Egyptian  lands  there  lived  a  sage, 
AVlio  read  the  secrets  of  the  coming  age, 

And  could  auticipalc  futurity; 


ALFONSO  X.  203 

He  judged  the  stars,  and  all  their  aspects;  he 
The  darksome  veil  of  hidden  tliint^s  witlidrew, 
Of  unborn  days  the  mysteries  he  knew, 

And  saw  the  future  as  the  past  we  see.  .  .  . 

He  made  the  magic  stone,  and  taught  me  too: 
We  toiled  together  first;  but  soon  alone 
I  formed  the  marvellous  gold-creating  stone, 

And  oft  did  I  my  lessening  wealth  ]-eneAv. 

Varied  the  form  and  fabric,  and  not  few 
This  treasure's  elements,  the  simplest,  best, 
And  noblest,  here  ingenuously  confessed, 

I  shall  disclose,  in  this  my  verse  to  you. 

And  what  a  list  of  nations  have  pursued 
This  treasure.     Need  I  speak  of  the  ("haldee. 
Or  the  untired  sons  of  learned  Araby; 

All,  all,  in  chase  of  this  most  envied  good? — 

Egypt  and  Syria,  and  the  tribes  so  rude 
Of  the  Orient,  Saracens  and  Medians,  all 
Laboring  in  vain,  though  oft  the  echoes  fall 

Upon  the  West,  of  their  song's  amplitude? 

If  what  is  passing  now  I  have  foretohl 
In  honest  truth  antl  calm  sincerity. 
So  will  I  tell  you  of  the  events  to  be 

Without  deception ;  and  the  prize  I  hold 

Shall  be  in  literary  lore  enrolled. 
Such  power,  such  empire  never  can  be  won 
By  ignorance  or  listlessness ;  to  none 

But  to  the  learned  state  my  truths  be  told. 

So,  like  the  Theban  Sphinx,  will  I  propound 
My  mysteries,  and  in  riddles  truth  will  speak. 
Deem  them  not  idle  words;  for  if  you  seek. 

Through  tlieir  dense  darkness,  light  may  oft  be 
found. 

Muse,  meditate,  and  look  in  silence  round; 
Hold  no  communion  of  vain  language;   learn 
And  treasure  up  the  lore — if  you  discern 

What's  here  in  hieroglyphic  letters  bound. 

My  soul  hath  spoken  and  foretold;  I  bring 
The  voices  of  the  stars  to  chime  with  mine: 
He  who  shall  share  with  me  this  gift  divine, 

Shall  share  with  me  the  privilege  of  a  king. 


204  HENRY  ALFORD. 

Mine  is  no  mean,  no  paltry  offering: 
Cupidity  itself  must  be  content 
With  sncli  a  portion  as  I  here  present; 

And  Midas' s  wealth  to  ours  a  trifling  thing. 

So  when  our  work  in  this  oi^r  sphere  was  done, 
Deucalion  towered  sublimely  o'er  the  rest; 
And  proudly  dominant  he  stood  confessed 

On  the  tenth  mountain ;  thence  looked  kindly  on 

The  Sovereign  Sire,  who  offered  him  a  crown, 
Or  emj^ires  vast,  for  his  reward ;  or  gold, 
From  his  vast  ti'easure,  for  his  heirs,  untold: 

So  hold  and  resolute  was  Deucalion. 

I'll  give  you  honest  counsel,  if  you  be 
My  kinsman  or  my  countryman:  If  e'er 
His  gift  be  youre,  its  treasury  all  confer 

On  him  who  shall  unveil  the  mystery; 

Offer  liim  all  and  offer  cheerfully. 
And  otfer  most  sincerely.     Weak  and  small 
To  your  best  offering,  though  you  offer  all. 

Tour  recompense  may  be  eternity. 
— From  Del  Tesoro. — Transl.  Anon. 

ALFORD,  Henry,  D.D.,  an  English  poet, 
divine,  and  scholar,  born  in  London  in  1810 ; 
died  Jan.  12,  1871.  He  was  educated  at  Trin- 
ity College,  Cambridge ;  took  orders,  and  was 
made  Vicar  of  Wymeswold,  in  Leicester- 
shire. In  1853  he  took  up  his  residence  in 
London,  becoming  preacher  at  the  Quebec 
Street  chapel,  where  he  acquired  much  celeb- 
rity as  a  preacher,  and  was  for  several  years 
before  and  after  Examiner  in  Logic  and  Moral 
Philosophy  in  the  University  of  London.  He 
had  already,  in  1841,  delivered  a  masterly 
course  of  the  Hulsean  Lectures  at  Cambridge, 
and  in  the  same  year  published  his  scholarly 
Chapters  on  the  Ch^eek  Poets.  In  1857  he  was 
made  Dean  of  Canterhury.  He  began  his  lit- 
erary career  in  1831  by  the  publication  of  a 
httle  volume  of  Poetical  Fragments^  which 
was  followed  in  1835  by  The  School  of  the 
Heart  and  other  Poems.     From  time  to  time 


HENRY  ALFORD.  205 

he  put  forth  many  poems,  notable  among 
Avhich  were  a  series  of  Hymns  for  varioas 
seasons  of  the  Christian  year,  which  hold  a 
high  place  in  modern  Hymnology.  About 
1852  he  made  for  an  American  j)ublisher  a 
complete  collection  of  his  poetical  works, 
which  was  dedicated  to  Longfellow.  After 
that  he  wrote  little  poetry,  the  current  of  his 
thought  being  turned  in  other  directions, 
especially  toward  Biblical  criticism.  By  way 
of  Prologue  to  his  collected  poems  he  prefixed 
the  following : 

PUOLOGUE  TO  COLLECTED  POEMS. 

Not  war,  nor  hurrying  troops  from  plain  to  plain, 

Nor  deeds  of  high  resolve,  nor  stern  command, 
Sing  I.     The  brow  that  carries  trace  of  pain 

Long  and  enough  tlie  sons  of  Song  have  scanned: 
Nor  lady's  love  in  honeysuckle  bower, 

With  helmet  hanging  high,  in  stolen  ease: 
Poets  enough,  I  deemed,  of  heavenly  power 

Ere  now  had  lavished  upon  themes  like  this. — 
My  harp  and  I  have  sought  a  holier  meed. 

The  fragments  of  God's  image  to  restore, 
The  earnest  longings  of  the  soul  to  feed, 

And  balm  into  the  spirit's  wounds  to  pour. 
One  gentle  voice  hath  bid  our  task  God-speed: 

And  now  we  search  the  world  to  hear  of  more. 

EPILOGUE  TO    "the   SCHOOL   OF  THE  HEART." 

Thus  far  in  golden  dreams  of  youth  I  sung 
Of  Love  and  Beauty — Beauty  not  the  child 
Of  change,  nor  Love  tlie  growth  of  fierce  desire, 
But  calm  and  blessed  botli — the  heritage 
Of  purest  spirits,  sprung  from  trust  in  God. 
Further  to  pierce  the  veil  asks  rii)er  strength, 
xVnd  for  men  resting  on  conclusions  fixed 
By  patient  labor,  wrought  in  manly  years. 
Here  rest  we  then:  our  message  thus  declared. 
Leave  the  full  echoes  of  our  harp  to  ebb 
Back  from  the  sated  ear:  teaching  meanwhile 
Our  thoughts  to  meditate  new  melodies, 
O'ur  hands  to  touch  the  strings  with  safer  skill. 


^  HENKY  ALFORD. 

HYMN   FOR   SAINT  AiSfDEEW's   DAY. 

Of  all  the  lienors  man  may  wear, 

Of  all  his  titles  proudly  stored, 
No  lowly  palm  his  name  shall  bear, 

"  The  first  to  follow  Christ  the  Lord." 

Such  name  thou  hast,  who  didst  incline, 
Fired  with  the  great  Forerunner's  joy, 

Homeward  to  track  the  steps  divine, 
And  watch  the  Savioui-'s blest  employ. 

Lord,  give  to  us.  Thy  servants,  grace 
To  hear  wlif^ne'er  thy  preachers  speak, 

When  Thou  commandest,  Seek  My  face, 
Thy  face  in  earnest  hope  to  seek. 

Mr.  Alford  put  forth  several  volumes  of 
Sermons  delivered  at  the  Quebec  Street  chapel, 
and  in  1865  a  small  volume  of  Meditations  on 
the  Advent.  From  these  we  present  some 
extracts : 

A   CHRISTIAN    nOUSEIIOLD. 

The  household  is  not  an  accident  of  Nature, 
but  an  ordinance  of  God.  Even  Nature's  pro- 
cesses, could  we  penetrate  their  secrets,  figure 
forth  spiritual  truths;  and  her  brightest  and 
nol>lest  arrangements  are  but  the  representatives 
of  the  most  glorious  of  those  truths.  The  very 
state  out  of  which  the  household  springs  is  one — 
as  Scripture  and  the  Church  declare  to  us — not  to 
be  taken  in  hand  unadvisedly,  lightly,  or  wan- 
tonly, seeing  that  it  sets  forth  and  represents  to 
us  the  relation  between  Christ  and  His  Church. 
The  household  is  a  representation,  on  a  small 
scale  as  regards  numbers,  but  not  as  regards  the 
interests  concerned,  of  the  great  family  in  heaven 
and  earth.  Its  whole  relations  and  mutvial  duties 
are  but  reflections  of  those  which  subsist  between 
the  Redeemer  and  the  people  for  whom  He  hath 
given  Himself. 

The  household,  then,  is  not  an  institution 
whose  duties  spring  from  beneath — from  the  ne- 
cessities of  circumstances  merely;  but  is  an 
appointment  of  God,  whose  laws  are  His  laws, 
and  whose  members  owe  direct  account  to  Him, 


HENRY  ALFOKD.  207 

The  father  of  a  household  stands  most  immedi- 
ately iu  God's  place.  His  is  the  post  of  greatest 
responsibility,  of  greatest  inlluence  for  good  or 
evil.  His  it  is — in  the  last  resort — to  fix  and  de- 
termine the  character  which  his  household  shall 
bear.  According  as  he  is  good  or  bad,  godly  or 
ungodly,  selfish  or  self-denying,  so  will,  for  the 
most  part,  the  complexion  of  the  household  be 
also.  As  he  values  that  which  is  good— not  in  his 
professions,  for  which  no  one  cares,  but  in  his 
practice  which  all  men  Qbserve— so  will  it  most 
likely  be  valued  also  by  his  family  as  they  grow 
up  and  are  planted  out  in  the  world. 

Of  all  the  influences  which  can  be  brought  to 
bear  on  man,  paternal  influence  may  be  made  the 
strongest  and  most  salutary;  and  whether  so 
made  or  not,  is  ever  of  immense  weight  in  one 
way  or  the  other.  For,  remember,  that  paternal 
influence  is  not  that  which  the  f  ather  (rie-s  to  ex- 
ert merely,  but  that  which,  in  matter  of  fact,  he 
docs  exert.  That  superior  life,  ever  moving  in 
advance  of  the  young  and  observing  and  imitative 
life  of  all  of  us— that  source  from  which  all  our 
first  ideas  came — that  voice  which  Sounded  deeper 
into  our  hearts  than  all  other  voices,  day  by  day, 
year  by  year,  through  all  our  plastic  childhood — 
will  all  through  life,  almost  in  spite  of  ourselves, 
still  keep  in  advance  of  us,  still  continue  to  sound. 
No  other  example  will  ever  take  so  firm  hold;  no 
other  superiority  be  ever  so  vividly  and  con- 
stantly felt. 

And  again  remember,  this  example  goes  for 
what  it  is  really  worth.  Words  do  not  set  it; 
religious  phrases  do  not  give  it  its  life  and  power. 
It  is  not  a  thing  of  display  and  effort,  but  of  inner 
realities,  and  recurring  acts  and  habits.  It  is  not 
the  raving  of  the  wind  around  the  precipice — not 
the  sunrise  and  sunset,  clothing  it  with  golden 
glory— which  moulded  it,  and  gave  it  its  worn 
and  rounded  form ;  but  the  unmarked  dropping  of 
the  silent  waters,  the  melting  of  the  yearly  snows, 
the  gushing  of  the  inner  springs.  And  so  it  will 
be,  not  what  the  outward  eye  sees  in  him,  not 
that  which  men  repute  him,  not  public  praise  nor 
public  blame,  that  will  enhance  or  undo  a  father's 


2U8  HENRY  ALFORU. 

iuflueucc  in  his  household,  but  that  which  he 
really  is  iu  the  hearts  of  his  family;  that  which 
they  kuow  of  him  iu  private ;  the  worth  to  which 
they  can  testifj'',  but  which  the  outer  world  never 
saw;  the  affections  which  lioAv  in  secret,  of  which 
they  know  the  depth,  but  others  only  the  surface. 
And  so  it  will  be  with  a  father's  religion.  None 
so  keen  to  see  into  a  man's  religion  as  his  own 
household.  He  may  deceive  others;  he  may  de- 
ceive himself;  he  can  hardly  long  succeed  in  de- 
ceiving them.  If  religion  with  him  be  a  mere  thing 
put  on — an  elaborate  series  of  outward  duties, 
attended  to  for  expediency's  sake — something  be- 
fitting his  children,  but  not  equally  fitting  him: 
oh,  none  will  so  soon  and  so  thoroughly  learn  to 
appreciate  this,  as  those  children  themselves. 
There  is  not  any  fact  which,  when  discovered, 
will  have  so  baneful  an  effect  on  their  young 
lives  as  such  an  appreciation.  No  amount  of 
external  devotion  will  ever  counterbalance  it,  no 
use  of  religious  phraseology,  nor  converse  with 
religious  people  without.  But  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  his  religion  is  really  a  thing  in  his  heart — if 
he  moves  about  day  by  day  as  seeing  One  invisible 
— if  the  love  of  Christ  is  really  warming  the  springs 
of  his  inner  life — then,  however  inadequately  this 
is  shown  in  matter  or  in  manner,  it  will  be  sure  to 
be  known  and  thoroughly  appreciated  by  those 
who  are  ever  living  their  lives  around  him. — Ser- 
mons at  Quebec  Chapel. 

ON  PROVIDEKCE. 

And  here  again,  passing  from  the  mere  general 
consideration  of  a  belief  in  an  overruling  God  to 
our  belief  in  the  God  and  Father  of  Our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  we  shall  find  our  grounds  of  comfort 
immensely  strengthened,  and  our  vision  exceed- 
ingly cleared.  During  this  present  time,  our 
ascended  and  glorified  Saviour  is  waiting  till  all 
things  are  put  under  His  feet.  The  whole  moral 
world  is  by  degrees  being  sirbdued  to  Him.  By 
various  dispensations  of  God's  Providence  the 
good  is  prevailing,  the  evil  is  being  defeated  and 
put  out.  Now,  if  ever,  is  it  true  that  the  good 
man  is  God's  esijecial  care,  and  that  all  scope  is 


HENKY  ALFOED.  209 

given  for  all  the  best  and  highest  graces  of  human- 
ity to  expand  and  tiourish.  The  perfect  i^attern  of 
the  Redeemer  is  before  us;  the  witnessing  Spirit 
is  within  us;  the  many  mansions  are  being  pre- 
pared for  us  by  Ilim  who  will  return  to  take  us 
thither.  He  that  will  love  life  and  see  good  days, 
is  not  dependent  on  promises  of  earthly  prosper- 
ity. His  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God;  his  good 
days  are  to  come  in  that  place  whither  his  Saviour 
Christ  has  gone  before  him. 

What  a  comfort  it  is  for  us  to  feel,  in  the  midst 
of  dark  and  perplexing  circumstances,  that  the 
mighty  and  all-wise  Being  who  is  overruling  all 
things  for  His  gloi-y,  and  bringing  good  out  of 
man's  evil,  is  our  own  God;  that  His  covenanted 
mercies  are  ours;  that  in  Christ  Jesus  all  His 
promises  ai'e  forever  ratified  to  each  one,  even  the 
least  and  most  helpless  among  us.  What  a  power- 
ful motive  does  it  furnish  to  all  good,  what  a  dis- 
couragement to  all  evil,  to  remember  that  we  have 
now  no  mere  general  assurance  that  God  is  on  the 
side  of  good,  but  a  positive  promise  that  all  power 
in  heaven  and  earth  is  given  to  Him  who  laid  down 
His  life  for  the  truth;  and  that  one  day  all  whc 
have  followed  Him  in  the  paths  of  truth  and  holi- 
ness shall  be  like  Him — partakers  in  His  victory 
— changed  into  His  spotless  purity — inheritors  of 
the  new  heaven  and  earth  wherein  dwelleth  right- 
eousness ;  which  He  hath  purchased  for  them, 
and  wherein  they  shall  reign  with  Him,  when 
truth  shall  finally  have  been  established,  and  all 
evil  shall  forever  have  been  put  down. — Medita- 
tions on  Advent. 

Dean  Alford,  as  he  was  generally  designated 
during  the  later  years  of  his  life,  was  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  current  literature.  One 
of  his  latest  productions  w^as  a  very  clever 
Plea  for  the  Queens's  English.  But  apart  from 
his  woi'k  as  a  preacher  the  most  important 
work  of  his  life  was  his  critical  edition  of  the 
Greek  Testament,  of  which  the  first  volume 
appeared  in  1S44,  the  second  in  1852,  the  third 
and  fourth  in  1855-57.  Th  is  edition  is  in  jnany 
14 


210  ALFRED  THE  GREAT. 

respects — especially  for  its  almost  exhaustive 
collection  of  the  Various  Readings  found  in 
the  extant  manuscripts — perhaps  the  most 
valuable  edition  ever  put  forth. 

ALFRED  The  Great,  King  of  England, 
born  849,  died  Oct.  28,  901.  He  succeeded  to 
the  crown,  upon  the  death  of  his  father, 
Ethelwulf,  in  872,  but  was  for  a  time  driven 
from  the  throne  by  the  Danes,  who  overran 
the  kingdom  of  the  West-Saxons.  But  after 
many  adventures  and  some  severe  reverses, 
he  completely  routed  the  invaders  in  879,  and 
firmly  established  his  sway.  In  891  there 
was  another  furious  invasion  of  the  North- 
men, who  gave  much  trouble  during  most  of 
the  remaining  years  of  his  reign.  Alfred 
was,  says  the  Saxon  Chronicler  Ethelwerd, 
"the  immovable  pillar  of  the  Western  Sax- 
ons; full  of  justice,  bold  in  arms,  learned  in 
speech,  and  above  all  things  imbued  with  the 
divine  instructions;  for  he  translated  into 
his  own  language,  out  of  Latin,  unnumbered 
volumes,  of  so  varied  a  nature  and  so  excel- 
lently, that  the  sorrowful  book  of  Boethius 
seemed  not  only  to  the  learned  but  even  to 
those  who  heard  it  read,  as  if  it  were  brought 
to  life  again. " 

In  1849,  a  great  public  meeting  was  held 
at  the  town  of  Wantage  in  Berkshire,  the 
place  of  his  birth,  to  celebrate  the  one  thou- 
sandth year  since  the  birth  of  Alfred;  it  was 
then  resolved  that  ' '  a  Jubilee  Edition  of  the 
works  of  King  Alfred  the  Great  should  be  im- 
mediately undertaken,  to  be  edited  by  the 
most  competent  Anglo-Saxon  scholars  who 
might  be  willing  to  combine  for  the  piu'pose." 
The  work  was  comi^leted  not  long  after,  in 
two  large  volumes,  and  was  dedicated  to 
Queen  Victoria,  who  traces  her  descent  to 
Alfred.  In  the  Preface  the  Editor,  the  Rev. 
J,  A.  Giles,  says:     "These  works  extend  to 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT.  211 

almost  every  kind  of  learning  then  known, 
or,  rather,  they  reach  even  beyond  the  ut- 
most ■excellence  of  all  contemporary  learning. 
They  comprise  Poetry,  History,  Geography, 
Moral  Philosophy,  and  Legislation ;  and  they 
form,  in  fact,  the  most  valuable  portion  of 
Anglo-Saxon  literature.  It  is  no  disparage- 
ment to  these  writings  that  they  are  mostly 
paraphrases  of  ancient  Latin  authors.  This 
was  the  necessary  result  of  the  ignorance  in 
w^hich  the  whole  English  nation  were  then 
sunk." 

Alfred  the  Great  is  one  out  of  not  more  than 
half  a  dozen  kings  who  deserve  a  place  among 
•authors.  Indeed  it  would  be  hard  to  name 
more  than  these  three  or  four:  David  (and 
perhaps  Solomon)  of  Israel,  Alfred  of  Eng- 
land, and  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia. 
King  Alfred  set  forth  the  principles  which 
guided  him  in  the  work  which  he  undertook 
and  performed  in  this  direction.  He  of  course 
writes  in  Anglo-Saxon : 

Alfred's  plans. 

Covetousness  and  the  possession  of  this  earthly 
power  I  did  not  well  like,  nor  strongly  desired  at 
all  this  earthly  kingdom ;  but  I  desired  materials 
for  the  work  that  I  was  commanded  to  do.  This 
was  that  I  might  unfractiously  and  becomingly 
steer  and  rule  the  power  committed  to  me. 
For  no  man  may  show  any  -craft  or  rule,  nor 
steer  any  power  without  tools  and  materials.  .  .  . 
These  are  the  materials  of  a  King's  work,  and  his 
tools  to  govern  with:  That  he  may  have  his  land 
fully  peopled;  that  he  should  have  his  prayer-men, 
and  army-men,  and  work-men.  Without  these 
tools  no  king  may  show  his  skill.  .  .  . 

It  often  occurs  to  my  mind  to  consider  what 
manner  of  wise  men  there  formerly  were  in  the 
English  nation,  Ijoth  Spiritual  and  Temporal;  and 
how  the  kings  who  then  had  the  government  of 
the  people  obeyed  God  and  his  written  will;  how^ 
well  they  I'ehaved  both  in  war  and  i)oa(e.  and  in 


212  ALFRED  THE  GREAT. 

their  domestic  government;    and  how  they  pros- 
pered in  knowledge  and  religion. 

I  considered  also  how  earnest  God's  ministers 
then  were,  as  well  about  preaching  as  about  learn- 
ing; and  how  men  came  from  foreign  countries  to 
seek  wisdom  and  doctrine  in  this  land ;  and  how 
we  who  live  in  these  times  are  now  obliged  to  go 
abroad  to  get  them.  To  so  low  a  depth  has  learn- 
ing fallen  among  the  English  nation,  that  there 
have  been  very  few  on  this  side  of  the  Humber 
who  were  able  to  understand  the  English  of  their 
service,  or  to  turn  an  epistle  out  of  Latin  into 
English;  and  I  know  there  were  not  many  beyond 
the  Humber  who  could  do  it.  There  were  so  few 
that  I  cannot  think  of  one  on  the  south  side  of  the 
Thames  when  I  first  began  to  reign.  ... 

I  called  to  mind  that  the  law  was  first  wi'itten 
in  the  Hebrew  tongue ;  and  that  when  the  Greeks 
learned  it,  they  translated  it  into  their  own  lan- 
guage, besides  many  other  books.  And  after- 
them  the  Latins,  when  they  learned  it,  translated 
it,  by  means  of  wise  interpreters  into  their  own 
language,  as  all  other  Christian  people,  too,  have 
turned  some  part  of  it  also  into  their  own  tongue. 
For  which  reason  I  think  it  best  that  we  also 
should  turn  into  the  language  which  we  all  of  us 
know,  some  such  books  as  are  deemed  most  use- 
ful for  all  men  to  understand;  and  that  we  do  our 
best  to  effect,  as  we  easily  may,  with  God's  help, 
if  we  have  quietness,  that  all  the  youth  of  free- 
born  Englishmen,  such  as  have  wealth  enough  to 
maintain  them,  be  brought  up  to  learn,  that,  when 
at  an  age  when  they  can  do  nothing  else,  they 
may  learn  to  read  the  English  language  then;  and 
that  afterwards  the  Latin  tongue  shall  be  taught 
to  those  whom  they  have  it  in  their  power  to 
teach  and  promote  to  a  higher  condition. 

Alfred's  period  of  literary  activity  most 
probably  was  confined  mainly  to  the  ten  or 
twelve  years  of  peace  after  the  defeat  of  the 
Danes  in  878.  The  translation  of  Boethius 
appears  to  have  been  begun  in  884 ;  and  tlie 
last  of  his  works  was  probably  written  in  893 ; 
for  after  that  the  whole  of  his  time  w^ould  be 


ALFRED  THE  GllEAT. 


213 


most  likely  taken  up  by  the  critical  position 
of  his  kingdom,  menaced  as  it  was  by  foreign 
foes.  The  translation,  or  rather  paraphrase, 
of  the  De  Consolatione  PhilosophicE  of  Boe- 
thius  must  have  been  a  labor  of  love  with 
Alfred.  Boethius,  who  flourished  about  a.d. 
500,  was  perhaps  the  last  of  the  Eoman  writ- 
ers who  was  versed  in  Greek  literature,  and 
whose  productions  deserve  to  rank  by  the 
side  of  those  of  the  Augustan  age.  The  47 
Metres  into  which  Alfred  rendered  the  work 
of  Boethius,  are  among  the  best  specnnens  of 
Anglo-Saxon  Poetry.  Metre  VI.  On  Change, 
is  one  of  the  shortest  of  these.  It  is  here  given 
in  the  original,  with  a  literal  line-for-line 
translation,  which  will  serve  to  show  the 
marked  affinity  between  the  Anglo-Saxon  and 
our  present  English : 

ON  CHANGE. 


Tha  se  Wisdom  eft 
Word-hord  onleac, 
Sam/  soth-ewidas, 
And  thus  self  a  ewoeth : 

Thonne  sio  sunne 
Sweotolost  scineth 
Hadrost  of  hefone, 
Hicethe  bioth  athistrod 
Ealle  ofer  eorthan 
Othre  steorran ; 
Forthwm  Mora  hirhtu 
Ne  bith  auht 
So  gesettanne 
With  thmre  sunnan  leoht. 

Thonne  smolte  blcewth 
Southan  ami  westan. 
Wind  under  loolcnum, 
Thonne  weaxath  hrathe 
Feldes  blostman, 
Foiyan  thoit  hi  moton. 
Ac  se  stearea  storm 
Thonne  he  strong  cymth 
Northan  and  eastan, 
He  genimeth  hrathe 
Thoere  rosen  white 
And  eac  tha  ruman  sa, 
Northerne  yst 


Then  wisdom  afterward 
Word-lioard  unlocked, 
Sang  various  maxims, 
And    thus    himself    ex- 
pressed : 

When  the  Sun 
Clearest  shineth 
Serenest  in  the  heaven, 
Quickly  are  ohscured 
AH  over  the  earth 
Other  stars; 

Because  their  brightness 
Is  not  aught 
When  set  beside 
With  that  Sun's  light. 

When  mildly  bloweth 
Southern  and  western 
Wind  under  clouds, 
Then  wax  rathly 
The  field's  blossoms, 
Joyful  that  they  may. 
But  the  stark  storm. 
When  he  strong  cometh 
Northern  and  eastern. 
He  taketh  away  rathly 
The  roses'  beauty. 
And  eke  the  roomy  sea, 
Bv  northern  storm 


214  VITTOKIO  ALFIEEJ. 

Nede  gehmded  Of  necessity  bidden 

Thaet  hio  strange   geond-  That     it     be      strongly 

styred  stirred  up, 

On  stathu  beateth  On  the  shore  beateth 

Ea  la  !  th(Bt  on  eorthan       Alas  that  upon  earth 

AuhtfcBslices  Aught  fast-fixed 

Weorces  on  rvorulde  "Work  in  the  world 

Ne  ivunath  mfre  I  Ne'er  abideth  forever! 

ALFIEEI,  ViTTORio,  an  Italian  dramatic 
poet,  born  at  Asti,  in  Piedmont,  Jan.  17,  1749, 
and  died  at  Florence,  Oct.  8, 1803.  His  father, 
a  nobleman  of  considerable  estate,  died  while 
the  son  was  an  infant,  and  he  was  sent  to  the 
Academy  and  University  at  Turin,  where  he 
received  a  very  indifferent  education.  Of 
philosophy  and  science  he  acquired  next  to 
nothing ;  of  Latin  hardly  enough  to  read  the 
most  elementary  books.  His  own  provincial 
dialect  was  so  different  from  the  Tuscan,  or 
recognized  Italian,  that  the  works  of  Dante, 
Petrarch,  and  Tasso  were  almost  unintelli- 
gible to  him;  and  he  had  subsequently  to 
learn  the  language  in  which  he  was  to  im- 
mortalize himself,  as  though  it  were  a  for- 
eign tongue.  He,  however,  learned  French, 
and  this  was  the  only  language  which  he 
could  fairly  read  at  the  age  of  seven-and- 
twenty. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  received  permis- 
sion to  travel,  and  passed  two  years  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  Italy,  in  France,  England,  and 
Holland.  In  17C9,  having  become  of  age,  and 
receiving  possession  of  his  large  fortune,  he 
set  out  again  upon  his  travels,  visiting  Aus- 
tria, Prussia,  Denmark,  Sweden,  Holland, 
England,  Eussia,  France,  Spain,  and  Portu- 
gal, returning  to  Italy  in  1772.  His  life  up  to 
this  time  was  extremely  dissolute,  measured 
even  by  the  loose  standard  of  his  own  time 
and  country.  In  1776,  when  he  was  in  his 
twenty -eighth  year,  he  formed  a  deep  and  last- 
ing attachment  for  the  Countess  of  Albany, 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI.  215 

wife  of  Charles  Edward  Stuart,  best  known 
in  history  as  the  "Young  Pretender  "  to  the 
English  Crown.  She  was  a  little  younger 
than  Alfieri,  and  lived  most  unhappily  with 
her  husband,  now  verging  upon  threescore, 
whose  character  had  become  in  every  way 
disreputable  since  his  hope  of  the  English 
crown  had  vanished.  There  is  nothing  to 
show  that  the  intimacy  was  a  "  guilty  "  one, 
in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word.  He 
himself  declares  that  their  intimacy  "never 
exceeded  the  bounds  of  honor,"  although  his 
"attentions  were  such  as  to  warrant  the  jeal- 
ousy of  her  husband  and  his  brother,  the  Car- 
dinal of  York."  Charles  Edward  died  in 
1788,  and  she  soon  afterward  took  up  her 
residence  with  Alfieri,  but  there  is  no  positive 
evidence  that  they  were  ever  married.  The 
last  half  of  the  life  of  Alfieri  was  marked 
by  many  eccentricities,  of  which  there  is  no 
need  of  special  mention. 

His  first  serious  thought  of  becoming  an 
author  dates  at  about  1773.  His  earliest  dra- 
matic work  was  Cleopatra,  which  was 
brought  upon  the  stage  at  Turin  in  1775. 
From  that  time  he  set  himself  resolutely  to 
become  a  tragic  poet.  It  is  in  this  character 
alone  that  he  is  of  special  interest  to  after 
ages,  although  he  wrote  six  or  more  comedies, 
several  odes,  a  vohime  of  autobiography,  and 
other  prose.  His  tragedies,  nineteen  in  nvun- 
ber,  ai*e  all  cast  in  the  antique  mould,  or, 
rather,  such  an  idea  of  the  antique  spirit  as 
he  could  gather  from  the  French  of  Corneille 
and  Racine.  His  tragedies  are  almost  inde- 
pendent of  scenery  and  incident.  In  no  one 
of  them  are  there  more  than  six  speaking 
characters,  and  of  these  rarely  more  than 
three  are  upon  the  stage  at  any  one  time. 
There  is  indeed  often  a  crowd  of  "  Citizens," 
"Soldiers,"    "Councillors,"  and    "Guards," 


216  VITTOKIO  ALFIERI. 

but  they  act  only  the  part  of  the  ' '  Chorus  " 
of  the  ancient  drama,  breaking  in  upon  and 
emphasizing  the  declamation  of  the  real 
characters.  And  these  characters  were  al- 
most entirely  Alfieri  himself,  whether  they 
wore  the  toga  of  Brutus,  the  chlamys  of  Agis, 
or  the  cassock  of  Raimondi  de  Pazzi.  More 
than  half  the  subjects  are  taken  from  ancient 
Greek  and  Roman  legend.  Philip  II.  of  Spain 
and  the  mysterious  Don  Carlos,  Mary  Stuart, 
and  Saul,  King  of  Israel,  each  have  a  place. 

If  we  were  to  assign  the  one  governing  mo- 
tive running  through  the  tragedies  of  Alfieri, 
it  should  be  the  hatred  of  kmgly  rule. 
'•When  we  think  of  Alfieri,"  says  Mariotti, 
"we  must  bring  ourselves  back  to  his  age. 
The  regenei-ation  of  Italian  character  Avas  yet 
merely  intellectual  and  individual,  and  Alfieri 
was  boi-n  from  that  class  which  was  the  last 
to  feel  the  redeeming  influence.  Penetrated 
with  the  utter  impossibility  of  distinguishing 
himself  by  immediate  action,  he  was  forced 
to  throw  himself  on  the  last  resources  of  lit- 
erature. He  had  exalted  ideas  of  its  duties 
and  influence :  he  had  exalted  notions  of  the 
dignity  of  man : — an  ardent,  though  a  vague 
and  exaggerated  love  of  liberty,  and  of  the 
manly  virtues  which  it  is  wont  to  foster.  He 
invaded  the  stage.  He  wished  to  effect  upon 
his  contemporaries  that  revolution  which  his 
own  soul  had  luidergone.  He  wished  to  wake 
them  from  their  long  lethargy  of  servitude ; 
to  see  them  thinking,  willing,  strivmg,  resist- 
ing." 

The  dedications  to  some  of  Alfieri's  trag- 
edies are  quite  as  notable  as  anything  in  the 
dramas  themselves.  The  tragedy  of  Agis, 
the  Spartan  King  who  was  put  to  death  by 
his  subjects,  is  dedicated  to  Charles  I.  of 
England,  or  rather  to  his  shade,  for  his  head 
had  fallen  a  century  and  a-half  before.     Th« 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI.  217 

First  Briitus  is  dedicated  to  George  Washing- 
ton, in  a  few  months  to  be  the  first  President 
of  the  United  States.  The  Second  Brutus  is 
dedicated  to  "  the  Future  People  of  Italy," 
such  as  they  might  be  in  a  generation  yet  to 
come;  such  as,  it  may  be  hoped,  they  have 
measurably  now  come  to  be.  These  three 
Dedications  are  worthy  to  stand  among  the 
things  by  which  Alfieri  should  be  commemo- 
rated : 

Dedication  to  Agis. — May,  1786. 
To  the  Most  Sacred  Majesty  of  Charles  the  First, 

King  of  Great  Britain,  etc. : 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  may  dedicate  my  j-lf/Zs, 
without  meanness  or  arrogance,  to  an  unfortunate 
and  dead  King. — As  you  received  your  death  from 
the  sentence  of  an  unjust  Parliament,  this  King 
of  Sparta  received  his  by  a  similar  one  of  tlie 
Ephori.  But  just  as  the  effects  were  similar,  so 
were  the  causes  different.  Agis,  by  restoring 
equality  and  liberty,  wished  to  restore  to  Sparta 
her  virtue  and  her  splendor;  hence  he  died  full  of 
glory,  leaving  behind  him  an  everlasting  fame. 
You,  by  attempting  to  violate  all  limits  to  your 
authority,  falsely  wished  to  procure  your  own 
private  good;  hence  nothing  remains  of  you;  and 
the  ineffectual  compassion  of  others  alone  accom- 
panies you  to  the  tomb. — The  designs  of  Agis, 
generous  and  sublime,  were  afterwaids  hapijily 
prosecuted,  and  with  much  glory  to  himself,  by 
Cleomenes,  his  successor,  who  found  the  whole 
prepared.  Tour  designs,  common  to  the  herd  of 
monarchs,  were  and  are  perpetually  attempted 
l)y  many  other  princes,  and  also  carried  into  ef- 
fect, but  uniformly  without  fame.  In  my  opiiuon, 
one  can  in  no  way  make  a  tragedy  of  your  tragi- 
cal death,  the  cause  of  it  not  being  sublime.  I 
should  always  have  thought,  even  if  I  had  not  at- 
tempted to  do  it.  that  from  the  death  of  Agis,  the 
true  grandeiu-  of  the  Spartan  King  being  consid- 
ered, a  noble  tragedy  mif^^ht  have  been  con- 
sti'ucted. — Both  the  one  and  the  other  were  and 
will  be  a  memorable  example  to  the  people,  and  a 


218  VITTORIO  ALFIERI. 

terrible  one  to  kings;  but  with  tliis  remarkable 
difference  between  them,  that  many  others  have 
been  and  will  be  like  to  that  of  Your  Majesty, 
but  never  one  like  to  that  of  Agis. 

Bedication  to  The  Fikst  Bkutus.— Dec.  1788. 
To  the  most  illustrious  and  Free  Citizen,  General 

Washington : 

The  name  of  the  Deliverer  of  America  alone  can 
stand  in  the  title-page  of  the  tragedy  of  the  Deliv- 
erer of  Eome.— To  you,  most  excellent  and  most 
rare  Citizen,  I  therefore  dedicate  this;  without 
first  hinting  at  even  a  part  of  the  so  many  praises 
due  to  yourself,  which  I  now  deem  all  compre- 
hended in  the  sole  mention  of  your  name.  Nor 
can  this  my  slight  alhxsion  appear  to  you  contam- 
inated by  adulation;  since,  not  knowing  you  by 
person,  and  living  disjoined  from  you  by  the  im- 
mense ocean,  we  have  but  too  emphatically  noth- 
ing in  common  between  us  but  the  love  of  glory. 
Happy  are  you,  who  have  been  able  to  build  your 
glory  on  the  sublime  and  eternal  basis  of  love  to 
your  counti-y,  demonstrated  by  actions.  I,  though 
not  born  free,  yet  having  abandoned  in  time  my 
Lares,  and  for  no  other  reason  than  that  I  might 
be  able  to  write  loftily  of  Liberty— I  hope  by  this 
means  at  least  to  have  proved  what  might  have 
been  my  love  for  my  country,  if  I  had  indeed  for- 
tunately belonged  to  one  that  deserved  the  name. 
In  this  single  respect,  I  do  not  think  myself 
wholly  unworthy  to  mingle  my  name  with  yours. 

Bedication  to  The  Second  Brutus. — Jan.  1789. 
To  the  Future  People  of  Italy: 

I  hope  that  I  shall  be  pardoned  the  insult  by 
you,  O  generous  and  free  Italians,  that  I  inno- 
cently offered  to  your  grandfathers,  or  great- 
grandfathers, in  presenting  to  them  the  Two  Bru- 
tuses,  tragedies  in  which,  instead  of  Ladies,  inter- 
locutors and  actors,  the  People  was  introduced 
among  many  most  lofty  personages.  I  also  feel 
how  enormous  the  offence  was  to  attribute  tongue, 
hand,  and  intellect  to  those  who — from  having 
entirely  forgotten  that  they  themselves  had  ever 
received  these  gifts  from  nature — thought  it  ira- 


VITTOKIO  ALFIElil.  219 

possible  that  their  successors  should  over  re-ac- 
quire them. — "  But  if  my  words  are  destined  to 
be  seeds  which  fructify  in  lionor  to  those  Avhom  I 
arouse  from  death,"  I  flatter  myself  that  perhaps 
justice  will  be  rejjaid  me  by  you,  aud  not  dissev- 
ered from  some  jiraise.  Indeed  I  am  certain  that 
if  on  this  account  I  received  blame  from  your  an- 
cestors, it  would  not,  however,  be  exempted  to- 
tally from  esteem;  since  all  could  never  hate  and 
despise  him  whom  no  individual  hated,  aud  who 
manifestly  constrained  himself — as  far  as  was 
within  his  power — to  benefit  all,  or  at  least  the 
majority. 

The  tragedy  of  The  First  Brutus,  among  the 
latest  of  those  of  Alfieri,  is  based  upon  the 
well-known  Eoman  legend.  The  action  of 
the  drama  takes  place  wholly  in  and  near  the 
Forum  in  Rome,  and  occvipies  not  more  than 
two  days.  The  first  act  opens  with  Brutus 
and  Collatinus,  the  husband  of  Lucretia,  ha- 
ranguing the  citizens  in  the  Forum,  and  in- 
citing them  to  rise  against  the  House  of  Tar- 
quin.  The  body  of  Luci'etia  is  then  brought 
in,  and  the  Act  thus  concludes : 

People. —  Atrocious  sight! 

Behold  the  murdered  lady  in  the  Forum. 

Brutus. — Yes,  Romans,  fix — if  ye  have  power  to 
do  it — 
Fix  on  that  immolated  form  your'eycs. 
That    mute,   fair    form,   that    liorrilde    generous 

wound. 
That  pure  and  sacred  blood — Ah!  all  exclaim, 
"To-day  resolve  on  liberty,  (u-  we 
Are  doom'd  to  death.     iS^auglit  else  remains!" 

People.—  All,  all, 

Yes,  free  we  all  of  us  will  be,  or  dead. 

Brutus. — Then  listen  now  to  Brutus. — The  same 
dagger 
Which  from  her  dying  side  he  lately  drew, 
Brutus  now  lifts;  and  to  all  Rome  he  swears 
That  which  first  on  her  very  dying  form 
He  swore  already. — AV'liile  I  wear  a  sword, 


220  VITTORIO  ALFIEKI. 

While  vital  aii- 1  breathe,  in  Rome  henceforth 
No  Tarquin  e'er  shall  put  his  foot — I  swear  it; 
Nor  the  abominable  name  of  king, 
Nor  the  authority,  shall  any  man 
Ever  again  possess. — May  the  just  gods 
Annihilate  him  here,  if  Brutus  is  not 
Lofty  and  true  of  heart ! — Further  I  swear, 
Many  as  are  the  inhabitants  of  Rome, 
To  make  them  equal,  free,  and  citizens; 
Myself  a  citizen  and  nothing  more. 
The  laws  alone  shall  have  authority, 
And  I  will  be  the  first  to  yield  them  homage. 

People. — The  laws,  the  laws  alone!    We  with 
one  voice 
To  thine  our  oaths  unite.     And  be  a  fate 
Worse  than  the  fate  of  Collatinus  ours 
If  we  are  ever  perjured! 

Brutus. —  These,  these  are 

True  Roman  accents.     Tyranny  and  tyrants, 
At  your  accordant  hearty  will  alone. 
All,  all  have  vanished.     Nothing  now  is  needful 
Except  'gainst  them  to  close  the  city  gates; 
Since  Fate,  to  us  propitious,  has  already 
Sequestered  them  from  Rome. 

People. —  But  you  meanwhile 

Will  be  to  us  at  once  Consuls  and  Fathers. 
You  to  us  wisdom,  we  our  arms  to  you, 
Our  swords,  our  hearts,  will  lend. 

Bnifus. —  In  your  august 

And  sacred  presence,  on  each  lofty  cause, 
We  always  will  deliberate.     There  cannot 
From  the  collective  People's  majesty 
Be  anything  concealed.     But  it  is  just 
That  the  Patricians  and  the  Senate  bear 
A  part  in  everything.     At  the  new  tidings 
They  are  not  all  assembled  here.     Enough- 
Alas,  too  much  so — the  iron  rod  of  power 
Has  smitten  them  with  terror.     Now  yourselves 
To  the  sublime  contention  of  great  deeds 
Shall  summon  them.     Here  then  we  will  unite, 
Patricians  and  Plebeians;  and  by  us 
Freedom  a  stable  basis  shall  receive. 

People. — From  this  day  forth  we  shall  begin  to 
live. 


VITTORK)  ALFIERI.  221 

In  the  next  three  Acts  the  story  is  devel- 
oped. Brutus  and  Collatinus  are  made  con- 
suls. Tarquin  sends  a  message  to  the  Ro- 
mans, proposmg  that  his  guilty  son  shall  be 
given  up  to  punishment  for  his  crime.  A 
number  of  the  Patricians  form  a  conspiracy 
to  restore  the  Tarquins.  Among  these  are 
Titus  and  Tiberius,  the  sons  of  Brutus,  who 
are  led  to  believe  that  thus  only  can  the  life 
of  their  father  be  preserved.  The  plot  is  dis- 
covered, and  the  conspirators  are  appre- 
hended. The  fifth  Act  opens  in  the  Foinnn. 
Collatinus  and  Brutus  are  on  the  rostrum. 
The  conspirators  are  led  in  in  chains,  Titus 
and  Tiberius  last. 


People. —  All !  how  many, 

How  many  may  the  traitors  be? — Oh  heaven! 
Behold  the  sons  of  Brutus ! 

Collatinus. —  Ah!  I  cannot 

Lonj^er  restrain  my  tears. 

Jirutus. —  A  great  day, 

A  noble  day  is  this,  and  evermore 
Will  be  a  memorable  one  for  Home. — 
Oh  ye,  perfidiously  base,  who  dared 
Your  scarce-awakened  country  to  betray, 
Behold  ye  all  before  assembled  Eome. 
Let  each  of  you,  if  it  be  possible. 
Defend  himself  before  her. — All  are  silent. — 
Eonio  and  the  Consuls  ask  of  you  yourselves, 
Whether  to  you,  convicted  criminals. 
The  iJunishment  of  death  be  due? 

[All  are  silent.]  To  death 

Then  all  of  you  are  equitably  sentenced. 
The  People's  majesty,  with  one  consent, 
Proncmnces  the  irreversible  decree. 
Why  should  we  longer  tarry? — Oh !  my  colleague 
Weei)s  and  is  silent.     Silent  is  the  tSenate; 
Silent  the  citizens. 

People. —  Oh  fatal  moment! — 

Yet  just  and  necessary  is  their  death. 

Titus. — One  innocent  alone  amongst  us  all. 
Now  dies,  and  this  is  he.     IPoint.^i  to  liis  hrotJur.] 


222  VITTOKIO  ALFIEEI. 

People—  Oh  pity!    See, 

He  of  his  brother  speaks. 

Tiberius. —  Believe  him  not: 

Or  we  are  both  equally  innocent, 
Or  eqnally  ti-ansgressors.     In  the  paper 
My  name  is  written  next  to  his. 

Brutus. —  No  one 

Whose  name  is  written  on  that  fatal  scroll 
Can  be  called  innocent.     Some  may,  perchance,] 
Have  been  less  culpable  in  their  intent, 
But  only  to  the  gods  the  intent  is  known. 
And  it  would  be  an  arbitrary  judgment, 
And  thence  unjust,  the  guilty  to  absolve, 
As  to  condemn  them  from  the  inference 
Drawn  from  professed  intention.     It  would  be 
A  spurious  judgment,  such  as  Kings  assume; 
Not  such  as  by  a  just  and  simple  People 
Is  held  in  reverence.     People  who  alone 
To  the  tremendous  sacred  laws  submit; 
And  who,  save  of  the  letter  of  those  laws. 
In  their  decrees,  of  naught  avail  themselves. 
Collatinus.—Romims,,  'tis  true   that   these    un- 
happy youths 
Were  with  the  rest  of  the  conspirators 
Involved.     But  that  they  were  solicited, 
Confounded,  tampered  with,  and  fmally, 
By  the  iniquitous  Mamilius 
In  an  inextricable  snare  entrapped, 
Is  also  as  indubitably  true. 
He  made  them  think  that  all  was  in  the  power 
Of  the  expelled  Tarciuinii ;  thence  their  names- 
Would  you  believe  it— also  they  subscribed 
Only  to  save  their  sire  from  death. 

People.—  Oil  heaven! 

And  is  this  true  indeed?     Wc  then  sliould  save 
These  two  alone. 

Bruins.—  Alas!  what  do  I  hear?— 

Is  t/tis  the  Peojile's  voice?— Just,  free,  and  strong. 
Ye  would  now  make  yourselves,  and  how?  would  ye 
Lay,  as  the  base  of  such  an  ediiice, 
A  partial  application  of  your  laws? — 
That  I,  a  father,  might  not  weep,  would  ye 
Now  make  so  many  other  citizens. 
Sons,  brothers,  fathers,  weep?— To  the  keen  axe. 
Which  they  have  merited,  shall  noAV  so  manv. 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI.  223 

So  many  others  yield  tlicir  passive  necks, 

And  shall  two  culprits  only  be  exempt 

From  this,  because  they  seem  not  what  they  are? — 

They  were  the  Consul's  sons,  although  in  deeds 

They  were  not  so.     'Mong  the  conspirators 

With  their  own  hand  were  they  enrolled. — Or  all 

Or  none  of  them  should  die. — Absolve  them  all, 

And  at  once  ruin  Rome.     Save  two  alone. 

And  if  it  seem  so,  it  would  be  unjust. — 

Now,  less  a  just  than  a  compassionate,  judge, 

Hath  Collatinus  these  two  youths  defended. 

Asserting  that  they  wished  to  save  their  father. — 

Perhaps  this  was  true;  but  perhaps  the  others 

wished, 
Their  fathers  some,  their  brothers  some,  and  some 
Their  sons  to  save;  and  not  on  this  account 
Are  they  less  guilty;  since  they  rather  chose 
To  sacrifice  their  country  than  their  friends. — 
The  father  in  his  heart  may  weep  for  this ; 
But  in  the  first  place  should  the  genuine  Consul 
Secure  the  safety  of  his  Native  Country; 
And  afterwards,  by  mighty  grief  o'erwhelmed, 
Fall  on  the  bodies  of  his  lifeless  sons. — 
Ye  will  behold,  ere  many  hours  are  past, 
To  what  excess  of  danger,  by  these  men. 
Ye  have  been  brought.    To  fortify  our  hearts 
In  strength  imparted  by  the  strength  of  others, 
In  individual  strength  to  make  us  strong, 
Inflexible  as  champions  of  Freedom, 
Cruel,  though  just,  'tis  indispensable 
That  we  abide  this  memoralde  test. — 
Depart,  oh  lictors;  be  the  culprits  all 
Bound  to  the  columns;  let  the  hatchet  fall 
Upon  them. — I  have  not  a  heart  of  steel. — 
Ah !  Collatinus,  this  is  the  time  for  thee 
To  pity  me :  i:»erform  for  me  the  rest. 

[Brutns  sinks  on  his  seat,  and  turns  away  his 
eyes  from  the  spectacle.     Collatinus  sees  the 
conspirators  bound  to  the  columns. 
People. — Oh  cruel  sight!— The  wretched  father 
dares 
Not  look  at  them.— And  yet  their  death  is  just. 
Brutus. — The  punishment  approaches.     The  de- 
linquents 
Have  heard  the  sentence  of  the  Consuls. — Now 


224      WILLIAM  ROUNSEVILLE  ALGER, 

Think  on  the  pangs  of  the  distracted  father. — 
Tlie  cleaving  liatchet  o'er  each  neck  impends. — 
Oh  heaven!  my  very  heart  is  rent  in  twain! — 
I  Vvith  my  mantle  am  constrained  to  hide 
Tlic  insufferable  sight! — This  may  at  least 
Be  granted  to  the  father. — 
But  ye,  fix  ye  on  them  your  eyes. — Now  Eome, 
Free  and  eternal,  rises  from  that  blood. 

C'ollatinus. — Oh  superhuman  strength ! 

Valerms. —  Of  Rome  is  Brutus 

The  Father  and  the  God. 

People. —  Yes,  Brutus  is 

Tlie  Father  and  the  God  Of  Rome. 

Brutus. —  I  am 

The  most  unhappy  man  that  ever  lived. 

[The  curtfdn  falls  irJille  the  Uctors  stand  read?/ 
to  strlUb  the  blow.] 

ALGER,  William  Eounseville,  an  Ameri- 
can clergyman  and  author,  born  at  Freetown, 
Mass.,  Dec.  11,  1823.  He  graduated  at  Har- 
vard College,  and  at  the  Cambridge  Divinity 
School  in  1817;  became  pastor  of  a  Unitarian 
congregation  at  Roxbury,  Mass.,  and  in  1855 
succeeded  Theodore  Parker  as  minister  of  the 
Society  of  "Liberal  Christians,"  in  Boston. 
In  1876  he  became  minister  of  the  Unitarian 
church  of  the  Messiah,  in  New  York,  of  which 
Orville  Dewey  and  Samuel  Osgood — who 
afterwards  became  an  Episcopalian — had 
been  pastors.  Mr.  Alger  held  this  position 
for  three  years,  and  was  succeeded  by  Rob- 
ert Collyer.  All  these  successive  ministers  of 
the  Church  of  the  Messiah  have  won  a  place  in 
the  literature  of  their  day.  After  vacating 
his  pastoral  charge  in  New  York,  Mr.  Alger 
preached  for  three  years  at  various  places  in 
the  West,  and  about  1883  returned  to  New 
England,  to  devote  himself  to  general  litera- 
ture, which  had  indeed  been  his  main  vocation 
almost  from  the  first. 

His  principal  works  are:  A  Si/mboUc  Hist- 
ory of  the  Cross  of  Christ  (1851);  TJw  Poetry 


WILLIAM  ROUNSEVILLE  ALGER.      225 

of  the  Orient  (1856) ;  A  Critical  History  of  the 
Doctrine  of  a  Future  Life,  to  which  Ezra 
Abbot  appended  a  notable  Appendix,  else- 
where noticed  (1861) ;  The  Genius  of  Solitude 
(1866) ;  Friendships  of  Women  (1867) ;  Pray- 
ers offered  in  the  Massachusetts  House  of  RejJ- 
resentatives  (1868) ;  Life  of  Edivin  Forrest 
(1877);  and  The  School  of  Life  (1881).  The 
most  notable  of  his  works  is  the  Critical 
History  of  a  Future  Life.  In  the  opening 
paragraph  of  this  work  he  thus  propounds 
the  great  theme  to  be  elucidated  and  dis- 
cussed : 

THE  PROBLEM  OF  A  FUTURE  LIFE. 

Pausing,  in  a  thoughtful  hour,  on  the  Mount  of 
Observation,  whence  the  whole  Prospect  of  Life  is 
visible,  what  a  solemn  vision  greets  us.  We  see 
the  vast  procession  of  existence  flitting  across  the 
landscape,  from  the  shrouded  ocean  of  Birth,  over 
the  illuminated  continent  of  Exijerience,  to  the 
shrouded  ocean  of  Death.  Who  can  linger  there 
and  listen  unmoved  to  the  sublime  lament  of 
things  that  die!  Although  the  great  exhibition 
below  endures,  yet  it  is  made  up  of  changes,  and 
the  si>ectators  shift  as  often.  Each  rank  of  the 
past,  as  it  advances  from  the  mists  of  its  com- 
mencing career,  wears  a  smile  caught  from  the 
morning  light  of  Hope ;  but  as  it  draws  near  to  the 
fatal  bourne  it  takes  on  a  mournful  cast  from  the 
shadows  of  an  unknown  realm.  The  places  w'e 
occupy  were  not  vacant  before  we  came,  and  will 
not  be  deserted  when  we  go;  but  are  forever  filling 
and  emptying  afresh.  We  appear :  there  is  a 
short  flutter  of  joys  and  pains — a  bright  glimmer 
of  smiles  and  tears — and  we  are  gone. 

But  whence  did  we  come  ?  and  wliither  do  we 
go  ?  Can  human  thouglit  divine  the  answer  ?  It 
adds  no  little  solemnity  and  pathos  to  these  reflec- 
tions to  remember  that  every  considerate  person 
in  the  unnumbered  successions  that  liave  preceded 
us  has,  in  his  turn,  confronted  the  same  facts,  en- 
gaged in  the  same  inquiry,  and  been  swept  from 
his  attempts  at  a  theoretic  solution  of  the  prob- 


226      WILLIAM  EOUNHEVILLE  ALGEli. 

lem  into  the  solemn  solution  itself ;  while  tlie  con- 
stant refrain  in  the  song  of  existence  soundeth 
behind  him:  "  One  generation  passeth  away, 
and  another  generation  cometh;  but  the  earth 
abide  til  forever."  Widely  regarding  the  history 
of  human  life  from  the  beginning,  what  a  vision- 
ary spectacle  it  is!  How  miraculously  j^erma- 
nent  in  the  whole;  how  sorrowfully  evanescent 
in  the  parts !  What  pathetic  sentiments  it  awak- 
ens!   Amidst  what  awful  mysteries  it  hangs. 

Mr.  Alger  goes  on,  through  several  hun- 
dreds of  pages,  to  set  forth  the  manifold 
and  multiform  views  which  have  been  held 
of  the  Human  Soul ;  of  its  origin  and  future 
condition  and  destiny,  as  conceived  by  men 
of  all  ages  and  countries ;  and  then  gives  his 
own  conclusions  as  to  the  w'hole  matter  of  the 
Future  Life — premising  that,  ' '  If  the  boon  of 
a  future  Immortality  be  not  ours,  therefore 
to  scorn  the  gift  of  the  Present  Life  is  to  act 
not  like  a  wise  man,  who  with  grateful  piety 
makes  the  best  of  what  is  given ;  but  like  a 
spoiled  child,  who,  because  he  cannot  have 
both  his  oranges  and  his  gingerbread,  at  once 
pettishly  flings  his  gingerbread  in  the  mud." 

THE  HERE   AXD  THE  HEREAFTER. 

The  Future  Life — outside  of  the  realm  of  Faith — 
to  an  earnest  and  independent  inquirer,  and  con- 
sidered as  a  scientific  question,  lies  in  a  painted 
mist  of  uncertainty.  There  is  room  for  hope,  and 
there  is  room  for  doubt.  The  wavering  evidences 
in  some  moods  preponderate  on  that  side,  in  other 
moods  on  this  side.  Meanwhile  it  is  clear  that, 
while  he  lives  here,  the  best  thing  he  can  do  is  to 
cherish  a  devout  spirit,  cultivate  a  noble  charac- 
acter,  lead  a  pure  and  useful  life  in  the  serA'ice  of 
Wisdom,  Humanity,  and  God;  and,  finally,  when 
the  appointed  time  arrives,  meet  the  issue  with 
reverential  and  affectionate  conformity,  without 
dictating  terms.  Let  the  vanishing  man  say — 
like  Riickcrt's  dying  flower — ''  Thanks  to-day  for 
all  the  favors  I  have  received  from  sun  and  stream 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  227 

and  earth  and  sky;  for  all  the  ornaments,  from 
Men  and  God,  which  have  made  my  little  life  an 
ornament  and  a  bliss.  Farewell  all!  Content  to 
have  had  my  turn,  I  now  fall  asleep  without  a 
murmur  or  a  sigh.".  .  .  .  When  we  die,  may  the 
Spirit  of  Truth,  the  Comforter  of  Christ,  be  our 
Confessor;  the  last  inhaled  breath  our  Cuj)  of  Ab- 
solution; the  tears  of  some  dear  friend  our  Ex- 
treme Unction.  No  complaint  for  past  trials,  but 
a  grateful  acknowledgment  for  all  blessings  oui' 
parting  word.  And  then,  resigning  ourselves  to 
the  Universal  Father,  assured  that  whatever  ought 
to  be,  and  is  best  for  us  to  be,  will  be.  Either 
absolute  Oblivion  shall  be  welcome ;  or  we  will  go 
forward  to  new  destinies,  whether  with  preserved 
identity,  or  with  transformed  consciousness  and 
powers,  being  indifferent  to  us,  since  the  Will  of 
God  is  done. — Cntlcul  History  of  a  Future  Life. 

ALISON,  Rev.  Archibald,  a  Scottish  di 
vine  and  author,  born  at  Edinburgh,  Nov. 
13,  1757,  died  there  May  17,  1839.  He  was 
educated  at  the  University  of  Glasgow  and  at 
BaUiol  College,  Oxford;  took  orders  in  the 
Church  of  England,  and  received  several  val- 
uable preferments :  finally  retui'ning  to  Edin- 
burgh in  1800,  and  becoming  senior  minister 
in  St.  Paul's  Chapel,  where  his  eloquent  dis- 
courses attracted  much  attention.  His  Essays 
on  the  Nature  and  PHnclples  of  Taste,  first 
published  in  1790,  is  established  as  an  English 
classic.  In  1811  he  published  two  volumes  of 
Sermons.  Those  upon  the  Four  Seasons  are 
especially  admirable. 

EFFECT   OF   SOUNDS  AS   MODIFIED  BY  ASSOCIATION. 

The  howl  of  the  wolf  is  little  distinguished 
from  the  howl  of  the  dog,  either  in  its  tone  or  in 
its  strength;  but  there  is  no  comparison  between 
their  sublimity.  There  are  few,  if  any  sounds  so 
loud  as  the  most  common  of  all  sounds,  the  low- 
ing of  a  cow;  yet  this  is  the  very  reverse  of  sub- 
limity.    Imagine  this  sound,  on  the  contrary,  ex- 


228  REV.  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

pressive  of  fierceness  or  strength,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  it  would  become  sublime.  The 
hooting  of  the  owl  at  midnight,  or  amid  ruins,  is 
strikingly  sublime;  the  same  sound  at  noon,  or 
during  the  day,  is  very  far  from  being  so.  The 
scream  of  the  eagle  is  simply  disagreeable  when 
the  bird  is  either  tame  or  confined;  it  is  sublime 
only  when  it  is  heard  amid  rocks  and  deserts,  and 
when  it  is  expressive  to  us  of  liberty  and  inde- 
pendence, and  savage  majesty.  The  neighing  of 
a  war-horse  on  the  field  of  battle,  or  of  a  young 
untamed  horse  when  at  large  among  mountains, 
is  powerfully  sublime;  the  same  sound  in  a  cart- 
horse, or  a  horse  in  a  stable,  is  simply  indifferent, 
if  not  disagreeable.  No  sound  is  more  absolutely 
mean  than  the  grunting  of  swine;  the  same  sound 
in  the  wild  boar  —  an  animal  remarkable  for 
fierceness  and  strength — is  sublime. 

Tlie  low  and  feeble  sounds  of  animals  which  are 
considered  the  reverse  of  sublime,  are  rendered  so 
by  association.  The  hissing  of  a  goose,  and  the 
rattle  of  a  child's  plaything,  are  both  contempti- 
ble sounds;  but  when  the  hissing  comes  from  the 
mouth  of  a  dangerous  serpent,  and  the  noise  of 
the  rattle  is  that  of  the  rattlesnake,  although  they 
do  not  differ  from  the  others  in  intensity,  they  are 
both  of  them  highly  sublime.  There  is  certainly 
no  resemblance  between  the  noise  of  thunder  and 
the  hissing  of  a  serpent;  between  the  growling  of 
a  tiger  and  the  explosion  of  gunpowder;  between 
the  scream  of  the  eagle  and  the  shouting  of  a 
multitude:  yet  all  of  these  are  sublime.  In  the 
same  manner  there  is  as  little  resemblance  be- 
tween the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-fold  bell  and  the 
murmuring  of  the  breeze;  between  the  hum  of 
the  beetle  and  the  song  of  the  lark;  between  the 
twittering  of  the  swallow  and  the  sound  of  the 
curfew:  yet  all  these  are  beautiful. — Esscnjs  on 
Taste. 

ASSOCIATIONS   OF  THE   PAST. 

Even  the  peasant,  whose  knowledge  of  former 
times  extends  but  to  a  few  generations,  has  yet  in 
his  village  some  monuments  of  the  deeds  or  vir- 
tues of  his  forefathers,  and  cherishes  with  a  fond 


REV.  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  220 

Veneration  the  memorial  of  those  <jood  ohi  times 
to  whieli  liis  imagination  turns  with  (lelii;l)t,  and 
of  whicli  he  loves  to  recount  the  simple  tales  that 
tradition  has  brought  liim.  And  what  is  it  that 
constitutes  the  emotion  of  sublime  delight  which 
every  man  of  common  sensibility  feels  upon  his 
first  prospect  of  Rome  ?  It  is  not  the  scene  of 
destruction  which  is  before  him.  It  is  not  the 
Tiber,  diminished  in  his  imagination  to  a  paltry 
stream,  flowing  amidst  the  ruins  of  that  magnifi- 
cence which  it  once  adorned.  It  is  not  the  tri- 
umph of  Superstition  over  the  wreck  of  human 
greatness,  and  its  monuments  erected  upon  the 
very  spot  where  the  first  honors  of  humanity 
have  been  gained.  It  is  ancient  Rome  which  fills 
his  imagination.  It  is  the  country  of  Caasar,  of 
Cicero,  and  Virgil  which  he  sees  before  him.  It 
is  the  Mistress  of  the  World  Avhicli  he  sees,  and 
who  seems  to  him  to  rise  again  from  the  tomb  to 
give  laws  to  the  universe.  All  that  the  labors  of 
his  youth,  or  the  studies  of  his  maturer  age,  have 
acquired  with  regard  to  the  history  of  this  great 
people  open  at  once  on  his  imagination,  and  pre- 
sent him  with  a  field  of  high  and  solemn  imagery 
which  can  never  be  exhausted.  Take  from  him 
these  associations — conceal  from  him  that  it  is 
Rome  which  he  sees — and  how  dift"erent\vould  be 
his  emotion, — Essaijs  on  Taste. 

THE   LESSONS   OF   AUTUMN. 

There  is  an  "Eventide"  in  the  day:  an  hour 
when  the  sun  retires  and  the  shadows  fall,  and 
when  Nature  assumes  the  appearance  of  soberness 
and  silence.  It  is  an  hour  from  which  every- 
where the  thoughtless  fiy,  as  peopled  only,  in 
their  imagination,  Avith  images  of  gloom.  It  is 
the  hour,  on  the  other  hand,  which  in  every  age 
the  wise  have  loved,  as  bringing  with  it  senti- 
ments and  aftections  more  valuable  than  all  the 
splendors  of  the  Day.  Its  first  eft'ect  is  to  still 
all  the  turbulence  of  thought  or  passion  which 
the  Day  may  have  brought  forth.  We  follow  with 
our  eyes  the  descending  sun;  we  listen  to  the  de- 
caying sounds  of  labor  and  of  toil;  and,  when  all 
the  fields  are  silent  around  us,  we  feel  a  kindred 


230  REV.  ARCHIBALD  ALISOIST. 

stillness  to  breathe  upon  our  souls,  and  to  calm 
them  from  the  agitations  of  society.  From  this 
first  impression  there  is  a  second,  which  natui'ally 
follows  it:  In  the  Day  we  are  living  with  men;  in 
the  Eventide  we  begin  to  live  with  Nature ;  we 
see  the  world  withdrawn  from  us,  the  shades  of 
jSTight  darken  over  the  habitations  of  men,  and 
we  feel  ourselves  alone.  It  is  an  hour  fitted,  as  it 
would  seem,  by  Him  who  made  us,  to  still,  but 
with  gentle  hand,  the  throb  of  every  unruly  pas- 
sion, and  the  ardor  of  every  impure  desire;  and 
while  it  veils  for  a  time  the  world  that  misleads 
us,  to  awaken  in  our  hearts  those  legitimate 
affections  which  the  heat  of  the  Day  may  have 
dissolved.  In  the  momen  when  Earth  is  over- 
shadowed. Heaven  opens  to  our  eyes  the  radiance 
of  a  sublimcr  being;  our  hearts  follow  the  suc- 
cessive splendors  of  the  scene,  and  while  we  for- 
get for  a  time  the  obscurity  of  earthly  concerns, 
we  feel  that  there  are  "  yet  greater  things  than 
these." 

There  is,  in  the  second  place,  an  "  Eventide  " 
in  the  Year:  a  season  when  the  sun  withdraws  his 
propitious  light;  when  the  winds  arise  and  the 
leaves  fall,  and  Nature  around  us  seems  to  sink 
into  deca/yr.  It  is  said,  in  general,  to  be  "  the  sea- 
son of  melancholy;  and  if  by  this  word  be  meant 
that  it  is  the  time  of  solemn  and  serious  thought, 
it  is  undoubtedly  the  season  of  melancholy.  Yet 
it  is  a  melancholy  so  soothing,  so  gentle  in  its 
approach,  and  so  prophetic  in  its  influence,  that 
they  who  have  known  it  feel,  as  instinctively, 
that  it  is  the  doing  of  God,  and  that  the  heai't  of 
man  is  not  thus  finely  touched  but  to  fine  issues. 
We  rise  from  our  meditations  with  hearts  soft- 
ened and  subdued,  and  we  return  into  life  as 
into  a  shadowy  scene,  where  we  have  "  disquieted 
ourselves  in  vain."' 

Yet  a  few  years,  we  think,  and  all  that  now 
bless,  or  all  that  now  convulse  humanity,  will  also 
have  perished.  The  mightiest  pageantry  of  life 
will  pass ;  the  loudest  notes  of  triumph  or  of  con- 
quest will  be  silent  in  the  grave;  the  wicked, 
wherever  active,  "  will  cease  from  troubling," 
and  the  weary,  wherever  suffering,   "will  be  at 


8IR  AliCHIBALD  ALLSOX.  2^)1 

rest."  Under  an  imiJression  so  profound,  we  feel 
our  own  hearts  better.  The  cares,  the  animosi- 
ties, the  hatreds,  which  society  may  liave  engen- 
dered, sinlt  uni^ereeived  from  our  bosoms.  In  the 
general  desolation  of  Nature  we  feel  the  littleness 
of  our  own  passions;  we  look  forward  to  that 
kindred  Evening  which  time  must  bring  to  all; 
we  anticipate  the  graves  of  those  we  hate  as  of 
those  we  love.  Every  unkind  passion  falls  with 
the  leaves  that  fall  around  us;  and  we  return 
slowly  to  our  homes,  and  to  the  society  which 
surround  us,  with  the  wish  only  to  enlighten  or 
to  bless  them. — Sermons  un  the  Seaaons. 

ALISON,  Sir  Archibald,  a  Scottish  histo- 
rian, son  of  the  Eev.  Archibald  Ahson,  born 
at  Kenley,  Shropshire,  England,  where  his 
father  ^vas  then  vicar,  Dec.  39,  1792,  died  near 
Glasgow,  Scotland,  May  23,  1867.  His  father 
returned  to  his  native  Scotland  in  1800,  and 
with  his  family  took  np  his  residence  in  Edin- 
burgh. The  son  was  educated  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh ;  studied  law,  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  1814.  He  then  travelled 
on  the  Continent,  and  published  an  account  of 
his  travels  in  France.  He  rose  to  eminence  in 
his  profession ;  was  made  Deputy  Advocate- 
general  in  1822 ;  member  of  the  Crown  Coun- 
cil in  1822 ;  and  Sherifl:  of  Lanarkshire  in  1834 ; 
having  in  the  mean  while  published  several 
valuable  legal  works.  He  was  successively 
Lord  Eector  of  Marischal  (College,  Aberdeen, 
and  of  Glasgow  University,  and  was  created 
a  baronet  in  1852.  His  works  are  very  nu- 
merous, including  many  Essays,  Political, 
Historical,  and  Miscellaneous,  originally  con- 
tributed to  BZacfcifoocZ'silfof/asme,  and  in  1850 
published  separately  in  three  volumes ;  Prin- 
ciples of  Population  (^2  yo\s.  1840)  combating 
the  theory  of  Malthus;  England  in  1S15  and 
1845  discussing  the  Currency  (piestion;  and 
the  Life  of  tlce  Bake  of  Marlborouyh  (1847; 


232  fSIll  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

third  and  very  much  enlarged  edition,  1855). 
His  principal  works,  however,  are  the  History 
of  Europe  from  the  commencement  of  the 
French  Revolution  to  the  Restoration  of  the 
Bourbons  (1839-42),  and  a  continuation,  bring- 
ing the  narrative  down  to  the  accession  of 
Louis  Napoleon  (1852-59).  This  Continua- 
tion is  acknowledged  to  be  of  very  slight 
value.  "  The  author  had  not  exercised  much 
care  in  its  composition.  It  is  hastily  and  in- 
accurately written,  and  is  disfigured  by  blun- 
ders, omissions,  and  inconsistencies.  The  dif- 
fuse style  of  the  narrative,  which  was  felt  as 
a  drawback  on  the  earlier  History,  is  still 
more  conspicuous  in  this  Continuation."  The 
first  History  achieved  a  great  temporary  suc- 
cess, and  Avas  translated  not  only  into  all 
European  languages,  but  also  into  Arabic  and 
Hindustani.  Upon  the  whole,  even  this  work 
is  regarded  as  of  no  very  high  authority,  al- 
though it  has  not  a  few  distinguisliing  merits. 
Perhaps  the  descriptions  of  military  opera- 
tions ai-e  the  best  features  of  the  work.  The 
prejudices  of  the  author  stood  in  the  way  of 
his  being  an  impartial  and  reliable  historian 
of  the  causes  of  events,  and  his  moral  reflec- 
tions, in  which  he  is  extremely  diffuse,  "are 
quite  unworthy  of  the  author  of  the  narrative 
portions  of  the  history."  His  hatred  of  the 
French  Revolution  itself  led  him  to  adopt  the 
most  exaggerated  statements  of  the  atrocities 
committed  during  the  "Reign  of  Terror."  He 
adopts  without  qualification  the  statement  of 
Prudhomme  that  "  18,063  persons  were  guillo- 
tined by  order  of  the  Revolutionary  Tribu- 
nal," whereas  the  number  fell  somewhat 
short  of  2500,  He  sums  up— still  following 
Prudhomme— the  number  of  the  victims  of 
the  Revolution  at  more  than  a  million,  among 
whom  were:  "900,000  men,  15,000  women, 
and  22,000  children,  slain  in  La  Vendee:  "  and 


SIR  AKCUIUALD  ALISON.  233 

this,  he  says,  does  not  include  the  whole  num- 
ber of  victims.  In  setting  foi'th  the  immedi- 
ate causes  which  brought  about  the  Revolu- 
tion, he  enumerates  fairly  the  enormous 
wi"ongs  and  oppressions  under  which  the  peo- 
ple labored ;  but  adds,  strangely  enough,  that 
' '  the  immediate  source  of  the  convulsion  was 
the  Spirit  of  Innovation  which  overspread 
France."  The  value  of  Alison's  History  of 
Europe  rests  upon  the  vigor  of  isolated  pas- 
sages, rather  than  upon  its  merits  as  a  whole. 
In  writing  the  Life  of  the  Duke  of  Marlbor- 
ough, he  was  not  swayed  by  his  prejudices, 
and  the  work  is  of  high  value. 

CHARACTER  OF   LOUIS   XIV.    OF   FRANCE. 

Louis  XIV.,  whose  unmeasured  ambition  and 
diplomatic  address  had  procured  the  splendid  be- 
(luest  of  the  Spanish  succession  to  his  family,  was 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  sovereigns  who  ever 

sat  upon  the   throne  of   France It  is  the 

fate  of  all  men  who  have  made  a  great  and  dura- 
ble impression  on  human  affairs,  and  powerfully 
affected  the  interests,  or  thwarted  the  opinions  of 
large  bodies  of  men,  to  be  represented  in  opposite 
colors  to  future  times.  The  party,  whether  in 
Church  or  State,  which  they  have  elevated,  the 
nation  whose  power  or  glory  they  have  augmented, 
praise,  as  much  as  those  whom  they  have  op- 
pressed and  injured,  whether  at  home  or  abroad, 
strive  to  vilify  their  memory.  But  in  the  case  of 
Louis  XIV.  this  general  propensity  has  been 
greatly  increased  by  the  opposite,  and,  at  first 
sight,  inconsistent  features  of  his  character. 
There  is  almost  equal  truth  in  the  magniloiiueiit 
eulogies  of  his  admirers,  and  the  impassioned  in- 
vectives of  his  enemies.  He  is  not  less  great  and 
magnanimous  than  he  is  represented  by  the  elegant 
flattery  of  Racine  or  Boileau.  nor  less  cruel  and 
bard-hearted  than  he  is  painted  by  the  austere  jus- 
tice of  Sismondi  or  D'Aubigne. 

Like  some  other  men,  but  more  so  than  most, 
he  was  made  up  of  lofty  and  elevated,  of  seliish 
and    frivolous    qualities.     He    could    alternately 


234  SIR  AKCHIBALU  ALISON. 

boast,  with  triitli,  that  "there  was  no  longer  auy 
Pyrenees,"  and  rival  his  youngest  courtiers  in  frivo- 
lous and  often  heartless  gallantry.  In  his  younger 
years  he  was  equally  assiduous  in  his  ai^plication  to 
business,  and  carried  away  by  personal  vanity. 
When  he  ascended  the  throne  his  first  words  were. 
"  I  intend  that  every  paper,  from  a  diplomatic  de- 
sjiatch  to  a  private  petition,  shall  be  submitted  to 
me;  "  and  his  vast  powers  of  application  enabled 
him  to  compass  the  task.  Like  Louis  Philippe,  he 
was  his  own  Prime-Minister;  and  even  when  he 
acted  through  others,  he  never  failed  to  communi- 
cate the  impress  of  his  own  lofty  mind  and  great 
capacity  to  the  conduct  of  all  his  subordinate  au- 
thorities. From  the  magnificent  publication  lately 
given  to  the  world  liy  the  French  Government,  and 
his  correspondence  Avith  his  generals,  there  pre- 
served, it  is  evident  that  he  rivalled  Napoleon  him- 
self in  the  vigilant  superintendence  which  he 
kei)t  up  over  all  his  oHicers,  and  the  skill  witli 
which  he  directed,  from  his  cabinet  at  Versailles, 
the  movements  of  his  armies  at  once  in  Flanders 
and  (jiermany,  Italy  and  Spain.  Discerning  in  the 
choice  of  his  Ministers — swayed  only,  at  least  in 
matters  of  State,  by  powerful  intellects — patriotic 
and  unselfish  in  the  choice  of  his  Ministers — he 
collected  round  himself  the  first  talent  in  France, 
and  yet  preserved  his  ascendency  over  them  all. 
Yet  at  the  same  time  he  deserted  his  Queen  for 
Madame  La  Valliere,  soon  after  broke  La  Val- 
liere's  heart  by  abandoning  her  for  Madame  de 
Montespan,  and  in  the  end  forgot  both  in  the 
arms  of  Madnme  de  Maintenon. 

In  mature  life  his  ambition  to  extend  the  bounds 
and  enhance  the  glory  of  France  was  equalled  by 
his  desire  to  win  the  admiration  or  gain  the  favor 
of  the  fair  sex.  In  his  later  days  he  alternately 
engaged  in  devout  austerities  with  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  and  with  mournful  resolution  as- 
serted the  independence  of  France  against  Europe 
in  arms.  Never  was  evinced  a  more  striking  ex- 
emplification of  the  saying,  so  well  known  among 
the  world,  that  "  no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet-de- 
chambre;"  nor  a  more  remarkable  confirmation 
of  the  truth  so  often  proclaimed  by  divines,  that 


SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISO^T.  235 

cliaractors  of  imperfect  goodness  constitute  the 
great  majority  of  mankind.— ii/e  of  the  Duke  of 
Marlboyouijh. 

CHAKACTER  OF  JAMES  II.  OF  ENGLAND. 

James  II.  was  a  sovereign  of  no  ordinary  charac- 
ter, and  the  important  events  of  liis  reign  have  im- 
pressed his  name  in  an  indelible  manner  on  the 
records  of  history.  In  his  person  a  dynasty  was 
overturned,  a  form  of  government  changed,  a  race 
of  sovereigns  sent  into  exile,  and  a  new  impulse 
communicated  to  the  Reformed  religion.  He  con- 
summated the  Waterloo  of  the  royal  dynasty  of  the 
Stuarts;  he  established,  without  intending  it,  the 
Protestant  faith  in  the  British  Empire  on  an  im- 
perishable foundation James  did  this,  like 

Charles  X.  in  after  times,  from  the  force  of  his 
will,  and  the  absence  of  corresponding  strength  of 
understanding;  from  the  sincerity  of  his  conscien- 
tious opinions,  and  the  want  of  that  intermixture 
of  worldly  prudence  which  was  necessary  to  give 
his  measures  lasting  success.  A  less  honest  man 
would  never  have  thought  of  ha/.arding  the  name 
of  royalty  for  that  of  religion;  a  more  able  o)ie 
would  probably  have  succeeded  in-  rendering  his 
religion  victorious.  It  is  the  mixture  of  zeal  with 
rashness,  sincerity  with  imprudence,  warlike  cour- 
age with  civil  incapacity,  which  has  generally  in- 
duced royal  martyrdom. 

Yet  James  11.  was  not  destitute  of  abilities,  and 
he  was  actuated  by  that  sincerity  of  intention  and 
earnestness  of  purpose  which  is  so  important  an 
element  in  every  elevated  character.  He  had  none 
of  the  levity  ov  insouciance  oi  his  brother  Charles. 
Charles  was  at  heart  a  Catholic,  but  he  never 
would  have  sacrificed  three  Crowns  for  a  Mass. 
In  the  arms  of  the  Countess  of  Castiemaine,  or  the 
Duchess  of  Portsmouth,  he  forgot  alike  the  cares 
and  the  duties  of  royalty.  James  was  not  without 
his  personal  frailties  as  well  as  Charles,  but  they 
did  not  form  a  ruling  part  of  his  character.  Cast 
in  a  ruder  mould,  moved  by  more  serious  feelings, 
he  was  actuated  in  every  period  of  his  life  by  lofty 
and  respectable,  because  generous  and  disinter- 
ested, passions.     Patiiotism  was  at  first  his  ruling 


236  SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  ^ 

motive.  England  had  not  a  more  gallant  admiral. 
Nelson  or  Collingw.ood  did  not  more  gallantly 
steer  into  tlie  midst  of  the  enemy's  fleet,  or  engage 
with  more  dogged  resolution,  yard-arm  to  yard- 
arm,  with  a  powerful  and  redoubtaljle  foe 

It  was  mainly  owing  to  his  efforts  and  patriotic 
perseverance  that  the  navy  of  England  was  put  on 
a  footing  commensurate  with  the  commercial  and 
political  importance  of  the  State,  and  the  fleet 
e(iuipped  which,  four  years  after  he  had  been  ex- 
pelled from  the  throne,  broke  the  naval  power  of 
Frajice  at  La  Ilogne,  and  determined  for  above  a 
century  the  maritime  contest  between  France  and 
England. 

And  thus,  although  James  was  a  bigoted  Catho- 
lic, and  sincerely  desirous  of  seeing  that  faith  re- 
stored in  his  dominions,  he  did  more,  directly  or 
indirectly,  without  intending  it,  than  any  other 
man,  to  establish  the  Protestant  faith  in  Europe; 
for  he  reared  the  fleet  which  gave  to  Protestant 
England  the  empire  of  the  seas,  and  by  paving  the 
way  for  the  accession  of  William  III.  to  the  throne, 
he  i)laced  her  at  the  head  of  the  grand  league  for 
the  support  of  the  Reformed  faith  in  Europe,  and 
broke  the  strength  of  Louis  XIV.,  the  great  Rom- 
ish supporter. 

In  the  prosecution  of  his  object  of  changing  the 
national  religion  he  was  rash,  vehement,  and  in- 
considerate. Deterred  l)y  no  considei-ations  of  pru- 
dence, influenced  l>y  no  calculation  of  his  means 
to  his  end,  he  permitted,  if  he  did  not  actually 
sanction,  ati'ocious  cruelty  and  oppression  towards 
his  unhappy  Protestant  subjects;  and  drove  on 
his  own  objects  Avithout  the  slightest  regard  to 
the  means  of  effecting  them  which  he  possessed, 
or  the  chances  of  success  which  they  presented. 
He  uniformly  maintained,  to  the  last  hour  of  his 
life,  that  it  was  perfect  liberty  of  conscience,  and 
not  any  exclusive  supremacy,  which  he  intended  to 
establish  for  his  Roman  C^atholic  subjects;  and 
several  acts  of  his  reign  unquestionably  favor  this 
opinion.  .  .  .  The  ccmstancy  of  James  in  mis- 
fortune Avas  as  remarkable  as,  and  more  resi^ectable 
than  his  vehemence  in  prosperity.  With  mournful 
resolution  he  continued  to  assert  to  his  dying  hour 


^SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISOK  237 

tlio  cause  of  Legitiniary  a,c;ainst  tliat  of  Revolution ; 
and  died  an  exile  in  a  foieiyn  land,  the  martyr  of 
religious  fidelity  and  royal  resolution.— i//'e  of  the 
Duke  of  Marlboyonijh. 

EPOCHS  IX  THE  FRENCH  KEVOI-UTION. 

The  History  of  Europe  durincr  the  French  Rev- 
olution naturally  divides  itself  into  four  periods: — 
The  First  Period,  commencing  with  the  convoca- 
tion of  the  States-General  in  1789,  terminates  with 
the  execution  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  the  establisiiment 
of  a  Republic  in  France,  in  1793.  Tliis  period  em- 
braces the  history  of  the  vast  changes  of  the  Con- 
stituent Assembly;  the  revolt  and  overthrow  of 
the  throne  on  the  10th  of  August;  the  trial  and 

death  of  the  King The  Second  Period  opens 

with  the  strife  of  the  Girondists  and  the  Jacobins; 
and,  after  recounting  the  fall  of  the  latter  body, 
enters  upon  the  dreadful  era  of  the  Reign  of  Terror, 
and  follows  out  the  sul:seqnent  struggles  of  the 
now  exhausted  factions,  till  the  estaldishment  of 
a  regular  Military  Government  by  the  suppression 
of  the  revolt  of  the  National  Guard  of  Paris,  in  Oc- 
tol)er,  1795.  .  .  .  The  Third  Period,  commencing 
with  the  rise  of  Napoleon,  terminates  witlf  the 
seizure  of  the  reins  of  power  by  that  extraordinary 
man,  and  the  first  pause  in  the  general  strife  1)y 
the  Peace  of  Amiens.  It  is  singularly  rich  in 
splendid  achievements.  .  .  .  The  Fourth  Period 
opens  with  brighter  auspices  to  France  under  the 
firm  and  able  government  of  Napoleon,  and  ter- 
minates with  his  fall  in  1815.  Less  illustrated  than 
the  former  period  by  his  military  genius,  it  was 
rendered  still  more  memorable  by  his  resistless 
power  and  mighty  achievements.  .  .  . 

The  first  two  periods  illustrate  the  conse- 
quences of  democratic  ascendency  upon  the  civil 
condition;  the  last  two,  their  ett'ect  upon  the  mil- 
itary struggles  and  extern-al  relations  of  the  na- 
tions. In  both,  the  operation  of  the  same  Law  of 
Nature  may  be  discerned,  for  the  expulsion  of  a 
destructive  passion  from  the  frame  of  society,  by 
the  efforts  which  it  makes  for  its  own  gratification. 
In  both,  the  principal  actors  were  overruled  by  an 
unseen  Power,  which  rendered  their  vices  and  am- 
17 


238  SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

bition  the  means  of  ultimately  effecting'  the  de- 
liverance of  mankind.  Generations  perished  dur- 
the  vast  transaction;  but  the  Law  of  Nature  was 

unceasing  in  its  operation The  illustrations  of 

this  Moral  Law  compose  the  great  lesson  to  be 
learned  from  the  eventful  scenes  of  this  mighty 
drama. — Preface  to  the  History  of  Europe. 

THE   EEVOLUTIONAKY   TKIUMVIKATE. 

The  principal  powers  of  government  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Danton,  Marat,  and  Rt>bespierre. 

Danton  had  been  chiefly  instrumental  in  bring- 
ing about  the  insurrection  of  the  10th  of  August. 
He  was,  shortly  after,  from  his  situation  as  Min- 
ister of  Justice,  invested  with  supreme  authority 
in  the  capital,  and  was  subsequently  chiefly  in- 
strumental in  bringing  about  the  subsequent  mas- 
sacres in  the  prisons.  Yet  Danton  was  not  a  mere 
bloodthirsty  tyrant.  Bold,  unprincipled,  and  dar- 
ing, he  held  that  the  end,  in  every  case,  .iustifled 
the  means;  that  nothing  was  blamable,  provided 
it  led  to  desirable  results;  that  nothing  was  im- 
possible to  those  who  had  flie  courage  to  attempt 
it.  Like  Miral)eau,  he  was  the  slave  of  sensual 
passions;  like  him,  he  was  the  terrific  leader,  dur- 
ing his  ascendency,  of  the  ruling  class;  but  he 
shared  the  character,  not  of  the  Patricians  who 
commenced  the  Revolution,  but  of  the  Plebeians 
who  consummated  its  wickedness.  Inexorable  in 
genei-al  measures,  he  was  indulgent,  humane,  and 
even  generous  to  individuals ;  the  author  of  the 
massacres  of  the  2d  of  September,  he  saved  all 
those  who  fled  to  him,  and  spontaneously  liberated 
his  personal  adveisaries  from  prison.  Individual 
elevation,  and  the  safety  of  his  partj%  were  his 
ruling  objects.  A  Revolution  appeared  a  game  of 
hazard,  where  the  stake  was  the  life  of  the  losing? 
party.  The  strenuous  supporter  of  exterminating 
cruelty  after  the  10th  of  August,  he  was  among 
the  first  to  recommend  a  return  to  humanity  alter 
the  period  of  danger  was  past. 

Robespierre  possessed  a  very  different  character. 
Without  the  external  energy  of  his  rival,  without 
his  domineering  character  of  undaunted  courage, 
he  was  endowed  with  qualities  which  ultimately 


sill  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  239 

raised  him  to  the  head  of  affairs.  Thouji^h  not 
splendid,  his  talents  were  of  the  most  powerful 
kind.  Ungainly  in  appearance,  with  a  feeble 
voice  and  vulgar  accent,  he  owed  his  elevation 
chiefly  to  the  inflexible  obstinacy  with  which  he 
maintained  his  opinions  at  a  time  when  the  pop- 
ular cause  had  lost  many  of  its  supporters. 
Under  the  mask  of  patriotism  was  concealed  the 
incessant  influence  of  vanity  and  sellishness;  cau- 
tious in  conduct,  slow  but  implacable  in  revenge, 
he  avoided  the  perils  which  proved  fatal  to  so 
many  of  his  adversaries,  and  ultimately  estab- 
lished himself  on  their  ruin.  Insatiable  in  his 
thirst  for  blood,  he  disdained  the  more  vulgar 
passion  for  money:  at  a  time  when  he  disposed  of 
the  lives  of  every  man  in  France,  he  resided  in  a 
small  apartinent,  the  only  luxury  of  which  con- 
sisted of  images  of  his  flgure,  and  the  numl)er  of 
mirrors  which,  in  every  direction,  reflected  its 
forin.  AVhile  other  leaders  of  tlie  populace  af- 
fected a  scjualid  dress  and  dirty  linen,  he  alone  ap- 
peared in  elegant  attire.  An  austere  life,  a  de- 
served reputation  for  incorruptil)ility,  a  total  dis- 
regai-d  for  human  suffering,  preserved  his  ascend- 
ency with  the  fanatical  supporters  of  liberty,  even 
though  he  had  little  in  common  with  them,  and 

nothing  grand   or  generous  in  his  character 

The  approach  of  death  revealed  his  real  weakness. 
When  success  was  hopeless,  his  firmness  deserted 
him.  and  the  assassin  of  thousands  met  his  fate 
with  less  courage  than  the  meanest  of  his  victims. 
Marat  was  the  worst  of  the  triumvirate.  Na- 
ture had  impressed  the  atrocity  of  his  character  on 
his  countenance.  Hideous  features,  the  expres- 
sion of  a  demon,  revolted  all  who  approached  him. 
For  more  than  three  years  his  writings  had  inces- 
santly stimulated  the  people  to  cruelty.  Buried 
in  obscurity,  he  revolved  in  his  mind  the  means 
of  augmenting  the  victims  of  the  Revolution. 
His  principles  were,  that  there  was  no  safety  but 
in  destroying  the  whole  enemies  of  the  Revolution. 
He  was  repeatedly  heard  to  say  that  there  would 
be  no  security  to  the  State  till  280,000  heads  had 
fallen.  The  Revolution  produced  many  men  who 
carried  into  execution  more  sanguinary  measures; 


240  SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

none  who  exercised  so  powerful  an  influence  in 
recommending  tliem.  Death  cut  him  sliort  in  the 
midst  of  his  relentless  career.  The  hand  of  fe- 
male heroism  prevented  his  falling  a  victim  to  the 
savage  exasperation  which  he  had  so  large  a  share 
in  creating. — History  of  Europe,  Chap.  VI. 

CI.EMENCr  OF   NAPOLEOJf   AFTER  THE    18tH    BKU- 
MAIRE. 

Napoleon  rivalled  Caesar  in  the  clemency  with 
wliich  he  used  his  victory.  No  persecutions  or 
massacres,  few  arrests  or  imprisonments,  followed 
the  triumph  of  Order  over  Revolution.  On  the 
contrary,  numerous  acts  of  mercy,  as  wise  as  they 
were  magnanimous,  illustrated  the  rise  of  tlie 
Consular  Throne.  The  law  of  hostages  and  the 
forced  loan  were  abolished ;  the  priests  and  per- 
sons proscribed  by  the  revolution  of  the  18th 
Fructidor  were  permitted  to  return;  the  emi- 
grants who  had  been  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of 
France,  and  thrown  into  prison,  where  tliey  had 
been  confined  for  four  years,  were  set  at  liberty. 
Measures  of  severity  were  at  first  put  in  force 
against  the  violent  Republicans;  but  they  were 
relaxed  and  finally  abandoned.  Thirty-seven  of 
this  obnoxious  party  were  ordered  to  be  trans- 
ported to  Guiana,  and  twenty-one  to  be  put  under 
the  observation  of  the  police ;  but  the  sentence  of 
transportation  was  soon  changed  to  one  of  surveil- 
lance, and  even  that  was  shortly  abandoned. 
Nine  thousand  State  prisoners  who  languished  at 
the  fall  of  the  Directory  in  the  State  prisons  of 
France,  r-eceived  their  liberty.  Their  number,  two 
years  before,  had  been  sixty  thousand.  The  ele- 
vation of  Napoleon  was  not  only  unstained  by 
blood,  but  not  even  a  single  captive  long  lamented 
the  car  of  the  victor.  A  signal  triumi^h  of  the 
principles  of  humanity  over  those  of  cruelty,  glo- 
rious alike  to  the  actors  and  the  age  in  which  it 
occurred;  and  a  memorable  proof  how  much  more 
durable  the  victories  gained  by  moderation  are, 
than  those  achieved  by  violence  and  stained  by 
blood. — History  of  Europe,  Chap.  XXVIL 


Sm  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  241 

CLOSE  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  MAKENGO. 

Matters  were  in  this  desperate  state,  when  at 
four  o'clock  the  main  body  of  Dessaix  at  length 
made  its  appearance  at  St.  Juliano.  "  What  think 
you  of  the  day?"  said  JS'apoleon  to  his  lieuten- 
ant, when  he  arrived  with  its  division.  "  The 
battle,"  said  Dessaix,  "is  completely  lost;  but  it 
is  only  four  o'clock;  there  is  time  to  f,^ain  another 
one."  Napoleon  and  he  alone  were  of  this  opin- 
ion; all  the  others  counselled  a  retreat.  In  pursu- 
ance of  this  resolution,  the  remains  of  Victor  and 
Lannes's  corps  v;ere  re-formed,  under  cover  of  the 
cavalry,  which  was  massed  in  front  of  St.  Juliano, 
a  masked  battery  prepared  under  the  direction  of 
Marmont,  and  Dessaix  advanced  at  the  head  of 
his  corps,  consistino;  of  little  more  than  four  thou- 
sand men,  to  arrest  the  proj^ress  of  the  enemy. 
Napoleon,  advancinrj  to  the  front,  rode  along  the 
line,  exclaiming',  "Soldiers!  we  have  retired  far 
enough.  You  know  it  is  always  my  custom  to 
sleep  on  the  field  of  battle."'  The  troops  replied 
by  enthusiastic  shouts,  ami  immediately  advanced 
to  the  charge. 

Zach,  the  Austrian  commander,  little  anticipat- 
ing such  an  onset,  was  advancing  at  the  head  of 
his  column,  five  thousand  strong,  when  he  was 
received  by  a  discharge  from  twelve  pieces,  sud- 
denly unmasked  by  Marmont,  while  at  the  same 
time  Dessaix  debouched  from  the  village  at 
the  head  of  his  division.  The  Imperialists  as- 
tonished at  the  appearance  of  so  considerable  a 
body,  where  they  expected  to  find  only  fugitives 
in  disorder,  and  apprehensive  of  falling  into  a 
snare,  paused  and  fell  back;  but  Zach  soon  suc- 
ceeded in  restoring  order  in  the  front,  and 
checked  the  advance  of  the  enemy.  At  this  mo- 
ment Dessaix  was  struck  l)y  a  ball  in  the  breast, 
and  soon  after  expired.  His  last  words  were: 
"Tell  the  First  Consul  that  my  only  regret  in  dy- 
ing is  to  have  i^erished  before  having  done  enough 
to  live  in  the  recollection  of  posterity."  This  ca- 
tastrophe, however,  was  far  from  weakening  the 
ardor  of  his  soldiers.  The  second  in  command, 
Boudet,  succeeded  in  inspiring  them  with  the  de- 
sire of  vengeance,  and  the  flre  rolled  rapidly  and 


242  SIR  ARCHIBA.LD  ALISON, 

sharply  along  the  whole  line.  But  the  Imperial- 
ists had  now  i-ecovered  from  their  surprise;  the 
Hungarian  grenadiers  advanced  to  the  charge; 
the  French,  in  their  turn,  hesitated  and  broke; 
and  victory  was  more  doubtful  than  ever. 

At  this  critical  moment,  a  happy  inspiration 
seized  Kellermann,  which  decided  the  fate  of  the 
day.  The  advance  of  Zach's  columns  had,  with- 
out their  being  aware  of  it,  brouglit  their  right 
flank  before  his  mass  of  cavalry,  eight  hundred 
strong,  which  was  concealed  from  tlieir  view  by  a 
vineyard  where  the  festoons,  conducted  from  tree 
to  tree,  rose  above  the  horses"  heads,  and  efEect- 
ually  intercepted  the  sight.  Kellermann  instantly 
charged  with  his  whole  force,  upon  the  flank  of 
the  Austrians  as  they  advanced  in  open  column: 
and  the  result  must  be  given  in  his  own  words: 
"The  combat  was  engaged;  Dessaix  soon  drove 
back  the  enemy's  tirailleurs  on  their  main  body; 
but  the  sight  of  that  formidable  column  of  (iOOO 
Hungarian  grenadiers  made  our  troops  lialt.  I 
was  advancing  in  line  along  their  flank,  concealed 
by  the  festoons;  a  frightful  discharge  took  place; 
our  line  broke,  wavered  and  fled.  The  Austrians 
rapidly  advanced  to  follow  up  their  success,  in  all 
the  security  and  confidence  of  victory.  I  see  it; 
I  am  in  the  midst  t)f  them ;  they  lay  down  their 
arms.  The  whole  did  not  occupy  so  much  time 
as  it  took  me  to  write  these  six  lines." — Zach's 
grenadiers,  cut  through  the  middle  by  this  unex- 
pected charge,  and  exposed  to  a  murderous  fire 
in  front  from  Dessaix's  division,  which  had  rallied 
upon  receiving  this  unexpected  aid,  broke  and 
fled.  Zach  himself,  with  2000  men,  were  made 
prisoners;  the  remainder,  routed  and  dispersed, 
tied  in  the  utmost  disorder  to  the  rear,  overthrow- 
ing in  their  course  tlie  other  divisions  which  were 
advancing  to  their  support. 

This  great  achievement  was  decisive  of  the 
fate  of  the  battle.  The  remains  of  Victor's  and 
Lannes's  corps  no  sooner  beheld  their  success 
than  they  regained  their  former  spirit,  and  turned 
fiercely  upon  their  pursuers.  The  infantry  of 
Kaim,  overwhelmed  by  the  tide  of  fugitives,  gave 
way;    the  cavalry,   which  already  inundated  the 


SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  243 

field,  was  seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  and,  instead 
of  striving?  to  restore  the  day,  walloped  off  to  the 
rear,  trampling  down  in  their  progress  the  unfor- 
tunate fugitives  who  were  flying  l)efore  them.  A 
general  cry  arose,  "to  the  bridges!  to  the 
bridges!"  and  the  whole  army  disbanding,  rushed 
in  confusion  to  the  Bormida.  In  the  general  con- 
sternation Marengo  w^as  carried,  after  a  gallant 
defence,  by  the  Republicans;  the  cannoniers,  find- 
ing the  bridges  choked  up  by  the  fugitives, 
plunged,  with  their  horses  and  guns,  into  the 
stream,  where  twenty  pieces  stuck  fast,  and  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  At  length  Melas, 
who  hastened  to  the  spot,  rallied  the  rear-guard  in 
front  of  the  bridges,  and  by  its  heroic  resistance 
gained  time  for  the  army  tp  re-cross  the  river. 
The  trooi»s,  regaining  their  ranks,  re-formed  upon 
the  ground  they  had  occupied  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  day;  and  after  twelve  hours'  incessant 

fighting,  the  sun  set  upon  this  field  of  carnage 

The  Imperialists  had  to  lament  the  loss  of  7000 
men  killed  and  wounded,  besides  3000  prisoners, 
eight  standards,  and  twenty  pieces  of  cannon. 
The  French  sustained  an  equal  loss  in  killed  and 
wounded,  besides  1000  prisoners  taken  in  the  early 
part  of  the  day.  But  although  the  disproportion 
was  not  so  great  in  the  trophies  of  victory,  the  ef- 
fect was  prodigious  in  the  effect  it  produced  on 
the  respective  armies  and  the  ultimate  issue  of  the 
campaign.  The  Austrians  had  fought  for  life  or 
death,  with  their  faces  towards  Vienna,  to  cut 
their  way,  sword  in  hand,  through  the  French 
army.  Defeat  in  these  circumstances  was  irre- 
parable ruin The  French,  on  the  other  liand, 

had  now  firmly  established  themselves  on  the 
plains  of  Tiedmont,  and  could  by  merely  retaining 
their  present  position  effectually  cut  oft"  the  Im- 
perialists, and  hinder  their  rendering  any  assist- 
ance to  the  Hereditary  States.  In  these  circum- 
stances, the  victory  gave  the  Republicans — as  that 
under  the  walls  of  Turin  had  given  the  Imperial- 
ists a  century  before — the  entire  command  of 
Italy.  Such  a  result  was  in  itself  of  vast  import- 
ance; but  coming  as  it  did  in  the  outset  of  Napo- 
leon's career  as  First  Consul,   its    consequences 


244  SIR  ARCHIBALD  AL180N. 

were  incalculable.  It  fixed  him  on  the  throne,  re- 
vived the  military  spirit  of  the  French  people,  and 
precipitated  the  nation  into  that  career  of  con- 
quest which  led  them  to  Cadiz  and  the  Kremlin. — 
Hiistory  of  Europe,  Chap.  XXXI. 

THE  CONFLAGIIATION  OF  MOSCOW. 

On  the  night  of  the  13th  of  Septemher,  1812,  a 
fire  broke  out  in  the  Bourse,  Lehind  the  Bazar, 
which  soon  consumed  that  noble  edifice,  and 
spread  to  a  considerable  part  of  the  crowded 
streets  in  the  vicinity.  This,  however,  was  but 
the  prelude  to  more  extended  calamities.  At  mid- 
night on  the  15th,  a  bright  light  was  seen  to  illu- 
njinate  the  northern  and  western  parts  of  the  city, 
and  the  sentinels  on  watch  at  the  Kremlin  soon 
discerned  the  splendid  edifices  in  that  quarter  to 
be  in  flames.  The  wind  changed  repeatedly  dur- 
ing the  night;  but  to  whatever  quarter  it  veered 
the  conflagration  extended  itself;  fresh  fires  were 
every  instant  breaking  out  in  all  directions;  and 
Moscow  soon  exhibited  the  spectacle  of  a  sea  of 
flame  agitated  by  the  wind.  The  fuiy  of  an  au- 
tumnal tempest  added  to  the  horrors  of  the  scene; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  wrath  of  Heaven  had  com- 
bined with  the  vengeance  of  man  to  consume  the 
iuA'aders  in  the  city  they  had  conquered . 

But  it  was  ohiefly  during  the  nights  of  the  18th 
and  19th  that  the  conflagration  attained  its  great- 
est violence.  At  that  time  the  whole  city  was 
wrapped  in  flames;  and  the  volumes  of  fire  of  va- 
rious colors  ascended  to  the  heavens  in  many 
places,  diffusing  a  prodigious  light  on  all  sides, 
and  attended  by  an  intolerable  heat.  These  bal- 
loons of  flame  were  accomiianied  in  their  ascent 
by  a  frightful  hissing  noise  and  loud  explosions, 
the  result  of  the  vast  stores  of  oil,  tar,  rosin, 
spirits,  and  other  combustible  materials  with 
which  the  greater  part  of  the  shops  were  filled. 
Larg^  pieces  of  painted  canvas  unrolled  from  the 
outside  of  the  buildings  by  the  violence  of  the  heat, 
flt)ated  on  fire  in  the  atmosphere,  and  sent  down 
on  all  sides  a  flaining  shower,  which  spread  the 
conflagration  in  quarters  even  the  most  removed 
from  those  Avliere  it  originally  connnenced.     The 


SIK  ARCHIBALD  ALl.SOX.  245 

wind,  naturally  high,  was  raised  by  the  rarefaction 
of  the  air  to  a  perfect  hurricane .  The  liowliny  of 
the  tempest  drowned  even  the  roar  of  the  conlla 
gration;  the  whole  heavens  were  filled  with  the 
whirl  of  the  burning  volumes  of  smoke  which  rose 
on  all  sides,  and  made  midnight  as  bright  as  day. 
The  return  of  day  did  not  diminish  the  terrors 
of  the  conflagration.  An  immense  crowd  of 
hitherto  unseen  people,  who  had  taken  refuge  in 
cellars  or  vaults  of  the  buildings,  issued  forth  as 
the  flames  reached  their  dwellings.  The  streets 
were  speedily  filled  with  multitudes,  flying  in 
every  direction  with  the  most  precious  articles  of 
their  furniture;  while  the  French  army,  whose 
discipline  this  fatal  event  had  entirely  dissolved, 
assembled  in  drunken  crowds,  and  loaded  them- 
selves  with   the   spoils   of   the    city.      Never,   in 

modern  times  had  such  a  scene  been  witnessed 

Often  the  French  soldiers,  tormented  by  hunger 
and  thirst,  and  loosened  from  all  discipline  by  the 
horrors  which  surrounded  them,  not  content  with 
the  booty  in  the  streets,  rushed  headlong  into 
the  burning  edifices,  to  ransack  the  cellars  for  the 
stores  of  wines  and  spirits  Avhicli  they  contained; 
and  beneath  the  ruins  great  numbers  perished 
miserably,  the  victims  of  intempei'ance  and  the 
surrounding  fire For  thirty-six  hours  the  con- 
flagration continued,  and  during  that  time  above 
nine-tenths  of  the  city  were  destroyed.  The  re- 
mainder, abandoned  to  pillage,  and  deserted  by 
its  inhabitants,  offered  no  resources  for  the  army. 
Moscow  had  been  conquered ;  but  the  victors  had 
gained  only  a  heap  of  ruins. — Uistorij  of  Europe^ 
Chap.  LXVI. 

THE  KESTORATION  OF  THE  BOURBONS. 

Paris  presented  a  melancholy  aspect  after  the 
second  restoration  of  Louis  XVIII.  The  whole 
charm  of  the  Kestoration  even  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Royalists  was  gone ;  its  hopes  to  the  Nation  were 
at  an  end.  The  bridges,  and  all  the  principal 
points  of  the  town,  were  occupied  by  strong- 
bodies  of  infantry  and  artillery;  patrols  of  cav- 
alry were  to  be  seen  at  every  step;  the  reality  of 
subjugation  was  before  their  eyes.     Blucher  kept 


246  SIE  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

aloof  from  all  intercourse  with  the  Court,  and 
haughtily  demanded  a  contribution  of  a  hundred 
million  of  francs  for  the  pay  of  his  troops,  as  Na- 
poleon had  done  from  the  Prussians  at  Berlin. 
Already  the  Prussian  soldiers  insisted  with  loud 
cries  that  the  pillar  of  Austerlitz  should  be  pulled 
down,  as  Napoleon  had  destroyed  the  pillar  t)f 
Rosbach;  and  Blucher  was  so  resolute  to  destroy 
the  bridge  of  Jena,  that  he  had  actually  begun 
operations  by  running  mines  under  the  arches, 
for  blowing  it  wp.  A  long  negotiation  ensued  on 
the  subject  between  him  and  Wellington;  and  it 
was  only  by  the  latter  placing  a  sentinel  on  the 
bridge,  and  declaring  that,  if  it  was  blown  up,  he 
would  consider  it  a  rupture  with  Groat  Britain, 
that  the  destruction  of  that  Ijeautiful  monument 
was  prevented.  The  manner  of  the  Prussian 
officers  and  soldiers  was  often  rude  and  harsh,  and 
beyond  the  limits  of  Paris  their  troops  indulged 
in  every  species  of  pillage 

But  a  more  melancholy  humiliation  awaited 
the  French  Nation.  The  Allied  sovereigns  now 
arrived  in  Paris,  and  insisted  on  the  restoration 
of  the  objects  in  Art  in  the  Museum  of  the 
Louvre,  which  had  been  pillaged  from  their  re- 
spective States  by  the  orders  of  Napoleon.  The 
justice  of  this  demand  could  not  be  contested :  it 
Avas  only  wresting  the  prey  from  the  robbei".  .  .  . 
The  restitution  of  the  objects  of  Art  was  accord- 
ingly resolved  on,  and  forthwith  commenced  un- 
der the  care  of  British  and  Prussian  soldiers  who 
occupied  the  Place  dc  Carrotisel  during  the  time 
the  removal  was  going  forward.  Nothing  wounded 
the  P'rench  so  profoundly  as  this  breaking  up  of 
the  trophies  of  the  war.  It  told  them,  in  language 
not  to  be  misunderstood,  that  conquest  had  now 
reached  their  doors.  The  iron  went  into  the  soul 
of  the  Nation.  .  .  . 

The  breaking  up  of  the  Museum  was  an  ominous 
event  to  the  French  Nation;  for  the  neighboring 
Powers  had  Territories  as  well  as  Paintings  to  re- 
claim; and  the  Spirit  of  Conquest,  as  well  as  Re- 
venge, loudly  demanded  the  cession  of  many  of 
the  most  important  provinces  which  had  been 
fidded  by  the  Bourbon  princes  to  the  Monarchy  of 


SIPt  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  247 

Clovis.  Austria  insisted  upon  getting  back  Lor- 
raine and  Alsace;  Spain  put  in  a  claim  to  tlie 
Basque  rrovinces;  Prussia  insisted  that  her  se- 
curity would  lie  incomplete  unless  Mayence,  Lux- 
emburg, and  all  the  frontier  provinces  of  France 
adjoining  her  territory,  were  ceded  to  her;  and 
the  King  of  the  Netherlands  claimed  the  whole  of 
the  French  fortresses  of  the  Flemish  barrier.  It 
was  with  no  small  difficulty — and  more  from  the 
jealousy  of  the  ditt'erent  Powers  among  each 
other  than  any  other  cause — that  these  natural  re- 
prisals on  French  rapacity  were  prevented  from 
taking  place.  The  negotiation  was  protracted  at 
Paris  till  late  in  the  Autumn,  liussia — which  had 
nothing  to  gain  by  the  proposed  partition — sup- 
ported France  tlioughout  its  whole  continuance; 
and  the  different  Powers,  to  support  their  preten- 
sions in  this  debate,  maintained  their  armies,  who 
had  entered  France  on  all  sides;  so  that  above 
800,000  foreign  troops  were  quartered  on  its  inhab- 
itants for  several  months.  At  length,  however, 
by  the  persevering  efforts  of  M.  Nesselrode  and  M. 
Talleyrand,  all  difficulties  were  adjusted,  and  the 
second  Treaty  of  Paris  was  concluded  in  Novem- 
ber, 1815,  between  France  and  the  whole  Allied 
Powers. 

By  this  treaty,  and  the  conventions  which  were 
signed  the  same  day,  conditions  of  a  very  onerous 
kind  were  imposed  upon  the  French  Government. 
The  French  frontier  was  restored  to  the  state  in 
which  it  stood  in  1790,  by  which  means  the  whole 
of  the  territory,  far  from  inconsiderable,  gained 
by  the  treaty  of  1814,  was  resumed  by  the  Al- 
lies. .  .  .  Seven  hundred  millions  of  francs  was 
to  be  paid  to  the  Allied  Powers  for  the  expenses 
of  the  war;  in  addition  to  which,  it  was  stipulated 
that  an  army  of  150,000  men,  composed  of  .30,000 
from  each  of  the  Great  Powers  of  England,  Prus- 
sia, Austria,  and  Prussia,  and  the  lesser  Powers 
of  Germany,  was  to  occupy,  for  a  period  of  not 
less  than  three,  or  more  than  five,  years,  the  whole 
frontier  f oi  tresses  of  France ;  and  this  large  force 
was  to  be  maintained  entirely  at  the  expense  of 
the  French  Government.  In  addition  to  this,  the 
diiferent    I'owers    obtained    indemnities   for    the 


248  SIE  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

spoliations  inflicted  upon  them  by  France  during 
the  Eevokition,  wliich  amounted  to  the  enormous 
sum  of  735,000,000  of  francs ;  100,000,000  of  francs 
were  also  provided  to  the  smaller  Powers  as  an 
indemnity  for  the  expenses  of  the  Avar;  so  that 
tlie  total  sums  which  France  had  to  pay,  be- 
sides maintaining  the  Army  of  Occupation,  was 
no  less  than  1,535,000,000  of  francs.  Truly,  France 
now  underwent  the  severe  but  just  law  of  retalia- 
tion. She  was  made  to  feel  what  she  had  formerly 
inflicted  on  Germany,  Italy,  and  Spain.  Great 
Britain,  in  a  worthy  si)irit,  gave  up  the  whole  sum 
falling  to  her  out  of  the  indemnity  for  the  war — 
amounting  to  nearly  125,000,000  francs — to  the 
King  of  the  Netherlands,  to  erect  the  famous 
barrier  against  France  which  Joseph  II.  liad  so 
insanely  demolished.  And  the  Allied  Powers  unan- 
imously gave  the  highest  proof  of  their  sense  of 
Wellington  being  the  flrst  of  European  generals, 
by  conferring  upon  him  the  command  of  the 
Army  of  Occupation.  .  .  . 

But  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  military  display 
did  not  alone  terminate  the  war  in  France.  The 
muffled  drum  is  in  prospect.  The  Allied  Powers, 
irritated  beyond  endurance  by  the  treachery  and 
defection  of  the  whole  Frencli  army,  and  the  per- 
fidy with  which  the  party  of  Napoleon  liad  re- 
volted to  his  side,  insisted  peremptorily  upon 
measures  of  severity  being  adopted  by  the  French 
Government.  A  very  long  list  of  proscriptions 
was  at  first  rendered  by  tlie  European  Powers; 
and  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  they 
were  reduced,  by  the  efforts  of  Talleyrand  sup- 
ported by  Lord  Castlereagh,  to  fifty-eight,  of 
persons  to  be  banished.  But  banishment  was  not 
enough.  The  flagrant  treason  of  the  Hundred 
Days  demanded  the  blood  of  some  of  the  principal 
offenders;  and  Ney,  Labedoyere,  and  Lavalette 
were  selected  to  bear  the  penalty.  Tliey  were 
brought  to  trial  accordingly,  and  all  three  con- 
victed, upon  the  clearest  evidence,  of  high  treason. 
The  life  of  Lavalette  was  saved  by  the  heroic  de- 
votion of  his  wife,  who,  in  visiting  him  in  prison, 
changed  dresses  with  her  husband,  and  thus 
effected  his  escape;  but  Ney  and  Labedoyere  were 


SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON.  240 

both  executed,  and  met  their  fate  with  tliat 
heroic  courage  which  never  fails  deeply  to  im- 
press mankind.  .  .  ,  The  place  of  Ney's  execu- 
tion is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  gardens  of  the  Lux- 
embiirg;  and  few  spots  in  Europe  will  excite 
more  melancholy  emotions  in  the  mind  of  the 
traveller. — History  of  Europe,  Chap.  LXXVII. 

EPOCHS   IN   EUKOPEAN   HISTORY,    1815-52. 

The  First  Period,  commencing  with  the  entry  of 
the  Allies  into  Paris,  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon, 
terminates  with  the  passing  of  the  Currency  Act 
of  1819  in  England,  and  the  great  creation  of 
Peers  in  the  democratic  interest  during  the  same 
year  in  France.  The  effects  of  the  measures  pur- 
sued during  this  period  were  not  perceived  at  tlie 
time;  but  they  are  very  apparent  now.  The  seeds 
which  produced  such  decisive  results  in  after 
times  were  all  sown  during  its  continuance. 

The  Second  Period  begins  with  the  entire  estab- 
lishment of  a  Liberal  Government  and  system  of 
administration  in  France  in  181U,  and  ends  with 
the  revolution  which  overthrew  Charles  X.  in 
1830.  Foreign  transactions  begin,  during  this  era, 
to  become  of  importance;  for  it  embraces  the 
revolutions  of  Spain,  Portugal,  Naples,  and  Pied- 
mont in  1820;  the  rise  of  Greece  as  an  independ- 
ent State  in  the  same  year;  and  the  important 
wars  of  Russia  witli  Turkey  and  Persia  in  1828 
and  1829;  and  the  vast  conquests  of  England  in 
India  over  the  Goorkhas  and  Burmese  Empire. 
The  topics  it  embraces  are  more  varied  and  ex- 
citing than  those  in  the  first;  bvit  they  are  not 
more  important.  They  are  the  growth  which 
followed  the  seeds  previously  sown.  England  and 
France  were  still  the  leaders  in  the  movement; 
the  convulsions  of  the  world  were  but  the  con- 
sequences of  the  throes  in  them. 

The  Third  Period  commences  with  the  great 
debate  on  the  Reform  Bill — of  two  years'  continu- 
ance— in  England  in  18:51,  and  ends  with  the  over- 
throw of  the  Whig  Ministry,  by  the  election  of 
October,  1841.  The  great  and  lasting  effects  in 
the  change  in  the  Constitution  of  Great  Britain, 
by  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Act,  partially  de- 


250  SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALLSOX. 

velopcd  tliemselvcs  during  this  ijeriod,  and  the 
return  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  to  i>owcr  was  the  first 
great  reaction  against  them.  During  the  same 
time,  the  natural  effects  of  the  revolution  in 
France  appeared  in  the  government — unavoidable 
in  the  circumstances — of  mingled  force  and  cor- 
ruption of  Louis  Philippe,  and  the  growth  of  dis- 
content in  the  inferior  classes  of  society,  from  the 
disappointment  of  their  expectations  as  to  the  re- 
sult of  the  previous  convulsion.  Foreign  episodes 
of  surpassing  interest  signallize  this  period:  for 
it  contains  the  heroic  effort  of  the  Poles  to  restore 
their  national  independence  in  1831 ;  the  revolt  of 
Ibrahim  Pasha,  the  bombardment  of  Acre,  and 
the  narrow  escape  of  Turkey  from  ruin;  our  in- 
vasion of  Afghanistan,  and  subsequent  disaster 
there. 

The  FonrtJi  Period  commencing  with  the  noble 
constancy  in  adversity  displayed  by  Sir  Robert 
Peel  and  the  English  Government  in  1842,  termi- 
nates with  the  overthrow  of  Louis  Philippe,  and 
consequent  European  Revolutions  in  February, 
1848.  If  these  years  were  fraught  with  internal 
and  social  changes  of  the  very  highest  moment  to 
the  future  destinies  of  Great  Britain,  and  of  the 
whole  civilized  woi'ld,  they  were  not  less  distin- 
guished by  the  brilliancy  of  her  external  tri- 
umphs. They  witnessed  the  second  expedition 
into  Afghanistan,  and  capture  of  Cabul;  the 
conclusion  of  a  glorious  peace  with  China  under 
the  walls  of  Nankin;  the  conquest  of  Scinde 
and  desperate  passage  of  arms  on  the  Sutlej. 
Never  did  appear  in  such  striking  colors  the  im- 
mense superiority  which  the  arms  of  Civilization 
had  acquired  over  those  of  Barbarism,  as  in  this 
brief  and  animating  period. 

The  Fifth  Period  commences  with  the  over- 
throw of  Louis  Philii^pe  in  February,  1848,  and 
terminates  with  the  seizure  of  supreme  jJOAver  by 
Louis  Napoleon  in  1852.  It  is,  beyond  all  ex- 
ample, rich  in  external  and  internal  events  of  the 
very  highest  moment,  and  attended  by  lasting 
consequences  in  every  part  of  the  world.  It  wit- 
nessed the  spread  of  revolution  over  Germany  and 
Italy,  and  the  desj^erate  military  strife  to  which 


SIR  AKCIIIBALD  ALISON.  251 

it  gave  rise;  the  brief  but  memorable  campaign  in 
Italy  and  Hitngary;  and  the  bloodless  suppression 
of  revolution  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  by  the 
patriotism  of  her  People  and  the  firmness  of  her 
Government.  Interesting,  however,  as  these  events 
were,  they  yield  in  ultimate  importance  to  those 
which,  at  the  same  period,  were  in  progress  in 
the  distant  parts  of  the  earth.  The  rich  territories 
of  the  Puujaub  were,  during  this  period,  added  to 
the  British  dominions  in  India,  which  was  now 
bounded  only  by  the  Indus  and  the  Himalaya 
snows. 

At  the  sam.e  time  the  spirit  of  republican  ag- 
grandizement— not  less  powerful  in  the  New  than 
in  the  Old  World — impelled  the  Anglo-Saxons 
over  their  feeble  neighliors  in  Mexico:  Texas  was 
overrun,  California  conquered,  and  the  discovery 
of  gold  mines,  of  vast  extent  and  surpassing 
riches,  hitherto  unknown  to  man,  changed  tlie 
fortunes  of  the  world.  The  simultaneous  dis- 
covery of  mines  of  the  same  precious  metal  in 
Australia  acted  as  a  magnet,  which  attracted  the 
sti'eam  of  migration  and  civilization,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  mankind,  to  the  Eastern 
world.  And  now,  while  half  a  million  Europeans 
annually  land  in  America,  and  double  the  already 
marvellous  increase  of  Transatlantic  increase,  a 
liundred  thousand  Anglo-Saxons  yearly  migrate 
to  Australia,  and  lay  the  foundations  of  a  second 
England  and  another  Europe,  in  the  vast  seats 
provided  there  for  their  reception. 

Events  so  wonderful,  and  succeeding  one  an- 
other with  such  rapidity,  must  impress  ui)on  the 
most  inconsideiatc  o!)server  the  beliei'  of  a  great 
change  going  forward  in  human  affairs,  of  wJiich 
we  are  the  unconscious  instruments.  'i'hat 
change  is  The  Second  Bispcrmion  of  Mdukind  :  the 
spread  of  Civilization,  the  extension  of  Christi- 
anity, over  the  hitherto  desert  and  unpeopled  parts 
of  the  earth.  It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the  pas- 
sions of  Civilization,  the  discoveries  of  Science,  or 
the  treasures  of  the  wilderness  have  acted  most 
powerfully  in  working  out  this  great  cliange.— 
Prcfdcc  to  Illatonj  of  Enroiic,  1S15-1S-j2. 


252  SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON. 

SCOTT,    HYKON,   WOKDSWOKTU,   AND   COLEKIDGE. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  is  universally  considered  as 
the  greatest  writer  of  imagination  of  this  century. 
Like  most  other  great  men  the  direction  of  his 
genius  Avas,  in  a  great  degree  determined  by  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  arose;  but  its  character 
was  exclusively  his  own.  Close  observation  of 
nature,  whether  animate  or  inanimate,  was  his 
great  characteristic;  the  brilliancy  of  fancy,  the 
force  of  imagination,  were  directed  to  clothing 
with  sparkling  colors  her  varied  creations.  It  is 
liard  to  say  whether  his  genius  was  most  conspic- 
uous in  describing  the  beauties  of  nature,  or  de- 
lineating the  passions  of  the  heart.  He  was  at 
once  pictorial  and  dramatic.  He  was  at  first  known 
af>  a  poet;,  but  charming  as  his  poetic  conceptions 
Avere,  they  were  ere  long  eclipsed  by  the  wide- 
spread fame  of  his  prose  romances.  The  novels 
of  '•  the  Author  of  Waverley  "  caused  the  poems  of 
Walter  Scott  to  be  for  a  time  forgotten;  but  time 
has  re-established  them  in  their  celebrity.  .  .  . 
With  his  great  and  varied  powers  Scott  might 
have  been  a  most  dangerous  writer,  if,  like  Vol- 
taire, he  had  directed  them  to  sapping  the  foun- 
dations of  religion,  or  to  the  delineation  of  the 
degrading  or  the  licentious  in  character.  But  the 
elevated  strain  of  his  mind  preserved  him  from 
such  contamination.  It  was  on  the  noble — 
whether  in  high  or  low  life — that  his  affections 
were  fixed.  Alike  in  delineating  the  manners  of 
feudal  times,  or  the  feelings  of  the  cottage,  the 
dignity  of  Man  was  ever  iippermost  in  his  mind. 
No  man  ever  threw  a  mon^  charming  radiance 
over  the  traditions  of  ancient  times;  but  none 
ever  delineated  in  a  nobler  spirit  the  virtues  of 
the  present;  and  his  discriminating  eye  discovered 
them  equally  under  the  thatch  of  the  cottage  as 
in  the  halls  of  the  castle.  Perhaps  he  is  the  only 
author  of  numerous  Avorks  of  fiction  of  whom  it 
may  with  ti-uth  be  said  that  he  never  wrote  a  line 
which  on  his  death-bed  he  could  wish  recalled. 
....  WarerJey,  Guy  Mannerinfi,  The  Antiquary, 
Tlie  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  Old  Mortality,  are  the 
perfection  of  romantic  pictures  of  later  times;  TliS 
Abbot.  Quentiu  Duricard,  and  Iianhoe,  of  the  days 


SIR  AKCIIIBALD  ALISON.  2.>3 

of  chivalry.  But  these  rich  veins  were  at  length 
exhausted,  and  the  prolilic  fancy  of  the  author 
diverged  into  other  scenes  and  periods  in  which 
lie  had  not  such  authentic  materials  to  work  with, 
and  where  his  graphic  hand  was  no  longer  to  the 
same  degree  perceptible.  Some  of  his  later  ro- 
mances are  so  inferior  to  the  first  that  it  is  ditfi- 
cult  to  believe  they  have  been  composed  by  the 
same  master  spirit.  It  is  on  the  earlier  novels, 
which  delineate  the  manners,  feelings,  and  scenes 
of  .Scotland,  and  a  few,  such  as  Iminltoe,  Kenll- 
wurth,  The  Talisman,  and  Queniin  Burward,  that 
his  fame  as  a  writer  of  romance  will  permanently 
rest. 

Bykox  is  the  author  who,  next  to  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  has  obtained  the  most  wide-spread  reputa- 
tion in  the  world.  And  yet  his  character  and  the 
style  of  his  writings  differ  so  widely  from  those  of 
'•the  Wizard  of  the  Xorth,"  it  is  difficult  to  un- 
derstand how,  at  the  same  time,  they  attained 
almost  equal  celebrity.  ...  It  is  on  Cltilde  Har- 
old, more  than  on  his  metrical  romances,  that  his 
reputation  will  ultimately  rest.  The  reputation 
of  the  latter  was  at  first  prodigious.  They  were 
so  much  admired  not  because  they  were  founded 
on  nature,  but  because  they  differed  from  it.  Ad- 
dressed to  the  exclusive  circles  of  London  society, 
they  fell  upon  the  high-born  votaries  of  fashion 
with  the  charm  of  novelty;  they  breathed  the 
language  of  vehement  passion,  which  was  as  new 
to  them  as  the  voice  of  nature,  speaking  through 
the  dreamy  soul  of  Rousseau,  had  been  to  the 
corrupted  circles  of  Parisian  society  half  a  century 
before.  As  such,  they  excited  an. immense  sensa- 
tion, and  even  more  than  the  thoughtful  and  yet 
pictured  pages  of  CInlde  Harold,  raised  the  author 
to  the  very  pinnacle  of  celebrity.  ...  In  one 
class  of  readers  the  dramas  of  Byron  have  won  for 
him  a  very  high  reputation ;  in  another  Don  Juan 
is  his  passport  to  popularity.  But  though  char- 
acterized by  ardent  genius,  and  abounding  Avith 
noble  lines,  his  dramatic  pieces  want  the  elements 
of  durable  fame.  They  are  too  wild  for  ordinary 
life,  too  extravagant  for  theatrical  representation. 
.  .  .  Don  Juan  is  different;  there  is  much  in  it 
18 


254  SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISOK 

which  iinliapiMly  too  powerfully  rouses  eA^ery  hu- 
man breast.  But  although  works  of  fiction  in 
which  genius  is  mingled  with  licentiousness,  often 
at  first  acquire  a  very  great  celel)rity,  at  least  with 
one  sex,  they  labor  under  an  insuperable  objec- 
tion. Theycannot  be  the  subject  of  conversation 
with  the  other.  Works  of  fiction  are  chiefly  in- 
teresting to  both  sexes,  because  they  portray  the 
feelings  by  which  they  are  attracted  to  each  other. 
When  they  are  of  such  a  description  that  neither 
can  communicate  those  feelings  to  the  other,  the 
great  object  of  composition  is  lost,  and  a  lasting 
celebrity  to  the  author  is  impossible. 

WoKDsworrnr  presented  in  most  respects  a  most 
decided  contrast  to  .Southey,  his  neighbor  in  the 
mountains  of  Cumberland.     He  had  not  Southey's 
information;    was   not    distracted   by  any   prose 
compositions;  and  made  no  attempt  to  traverse 
the  numerous  and  varied  fields  of  thought  or  in- 
dustry which   Southey  has  tilled  with  so  much 
zeal.     But  on  that  very  account  he  was  more  suc- 
cessful, and  has  left  a  far  greater  reputation.     He 
was  less  discursive  than  his  In-illiant  rival,  but 
more  profound.     Little  attended  to— as  works  of 
that  stamp  generally  are  in  the  outset— they  grad- 
ually but  unceasingly  rose  in  public  estimation; 
they  took  a  lasting  hold  of  the  highly  educated 
youth  of  the  next  generation;  and  he  now  num- 
bers among  his  devout  worshippers  many  of  the 
ablest  men,  profound  thinkers,  and  most  accom- 
plished  and   discriminating  women   of    the   age. 
Indeed,  great  numbers  of  persons,  whose  mental 
powers,  cultivated   taste,  and   extensive  acquire- 
ments entitle  their  oi)inions  to  the  very  highest 
consideration,  yield  him  an  admiration  appi-oach- 
ing  to  idolatVy,  and  assign  him  a  place   second 
only  to  ISIilton  in  English  poetry.     He  is  regarded 
by  them  in  much  the  same  light  that  (Joethe  is  by 
tlie  admiring  and  impassioned  multitudes  of  the 
Fatherland.    It  may  lie  doubted,  however,  whether 
with  all  his  depth  of  thought,  simplicity  of  mind, 
and  philosophic   wisdom,  Wordsworth   will   ever 
get  that  general  hold  of  the  English  mind  Avhich 
(4oethe  has  done  of  the  Oormaii  mind.     Tlic  reasou 
is,  that  he  is  not  equally  imaginative.     He  is  a 


SIR   Al!(;ilIHALD  ALISON  'ioS 

great  i)liil(>soi)liic  poet;  and  to  minds  of  a  rellect- 
ive  turn,  no  writer  possesses  more  durable  or  en- 
chaining charms.  But  how  many  are  the  thought- 
ful and  reflecting  to  the  great  body  of  mankind; 
....  As  the  active  bears  so  great  a  proportion 
to  the  speculative  part  of  mankind,  (Joethe,  who 
depicts  the  feelings  of  the  former,  will  always  be 
a  more  general  favorite  than  Wordsworth,  who 
delineates  the  speculations  of  the  latter.  But 
that  very  circumstance  only  enhances  the  admira- 
tion felt  for  the  English  poet  1)y  that  small  but 
gifted  portion  of  the  human  species  who,  mingling 
with  the  active  part  of  the  world,  yet  judge  them 
with  the  powers  of  the  speculative. 

CoLKKiDGE  in  some  respects  bore  a  close  re- 
semblance to  Wordsworth;  but  in  others  he  was 
widely  different.  He  was  deep  and  reflecthig, 
learned  in  philosophic  lore,  and  fond  of  critical 
disquisition.  He  was  less  abstract  than  Words- 
worth, but  more  dramatic;  less  philosophic,  but 
more  jjictorial.  Deeply  penetrated  with  the  gen- 
ius of  Schiller,  he  has  transferred  the  marvels 
of  two  of  tike  great  German's  immortal  dramas  on 
Wallensteiu  to  the  English  tongue  with  the  exact- 
ness of  a  scholar  and  kindred  inspiration  of  a  poet. 
His  Ode  to  Mount  Blanc  is  one  of  the  sublimest 
productions  in  that  lofty  style  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. But  he  is  far  from  having  attained  the 
world-wide  fame  of  Gray,  Burns,  and  Campbell  in 
that  branch  of  poetry.  The  reason  is,  that  his 
ideas  and  images  are  too  abstract,  and  too  little 
drawn  from  the  occurrences  or  objects  of  common 
life.  He  was  deeply  learned,  and  his  turn  of  mind 
strongly  metaphysical.  But  it  is  neither  by  learn- 
ing or  metaphysics  that  lasting  celebrity,  either  in 
oratory  or  poetry,  is  to  be  attained.  Eloquence,  to 
be  popular,  must  be  in  advance  of  the  age,  and  but 
a  little  in  advance.  Poetry,  to  move  the  general 
mind,  must  be  founded  on  ideas  common  to  all 
mankind,  and  feelings  with  which  every  one  is 
familiar;  but  yet  educe  from  them  novel  and  pleas- 
ing conceptions.  It  reaches  its  highest  flight  when, 
from  these  common  ideas  and  objects,  it  draws 
forth  uncommon  and  elevating  thoughts;  concep- 
tions which  meet  with  a  responsive  echo  in  every 


256  ELLEN  P.   ALLERTON. 

breast,  but  had  never  occuirecl,  at  least  with  equal 
felicity,  to  any  one  heiore.—Histor]/  of  Europe, 
1815-1852,  Chap.  V. 

ALLERTON,  Ellen  (Palmer),  an  Ameri- 
can poetess,  born  at  Centre ville,  N.  Y.,  in 
1835.  In  1 862  she  was  married  to  Mr.-  Alpheus 
Allerton,  with  whom  she  took  up  her  home 
in  Wisconsin,  where  they  resided  until  1879, 
when  they  removed  to  HamHn,  Kansas.  Mrs. 
Allerton  early  manifested  a  fondness  for  lit- 
erature, but  wrote  little  for  publication  until 
after  her  marriage,  when  she  began  to  con- 
tribute largely,  especially  in  verse,  to  the 
newspapers  in  the  Far  West.  A  volume  of 
these  poems  was  collected  in  1885,  under  the 
title  of  Annabel,  and  other  Poems.  The  title- 
poem  had  never  before  been  published,  and 
indeed  hardly  equals  the  spirit  and  freshness 
of  the  earlier  and  shorter  pieces,  which  are 
imbued  with  the  fresh  vigorous  spirit  of  civ- 
ilized life  on  the  broad  fertile  prairies.  One  of 
these  poems,  which  stands  as  a  sort  of  motto 
for  the  whole  is — 

MY   AMBITION. 

I  have  my  own  ambition.     It  is  not 
To  mount  on  eagle  wings  and  soar  away 

Beyond  the  palings  of  our  common  lot. 
Scorning  the  griefs  and  joys  of  every  day; 

I  would  be  human— toiling  like  the  rest, 

With  tender  human  heart-beats  in  my  breast.  .  .  . 

And  so  beside  my  door  I  sit  and  sing 

My  simple  strains— now  sad,  now  light  and  gay, 
Happy  if  this  or  that  but  wake  one  string, 

Whose  low,  sweet  echoes  give  me  l)ack  the  lay. 
And  happier  still,  if  girded  by  my  song. 
Some  strained  and  tempted  soul  stands  firm  and 
strong.  .  .  . 

I  send  my  thought  its  kindred  thought  to  greet. 
Out  to  the  far  frontier,  through  crowded  town. 

Friendship  is  precious,  sympathy  is  sweet; 
So  these  be  mine,  I  ask  no  laurel  crown. 


ELLEN  r.  ALLERTON.  257 

SiH'li  my  aml)ition,  wliicli  1  here  unfold; 
So  it  be  granted,  mine  is  wealth  untold. 

One  of  the  freshest  and  most  characteristic 
of  these  prairie  poems  is  the  following : 

WALLS   OF   CORN. 

Smiling  and  beavitiful,  heaven's  dome 
Bends  softly  over  our  prairie  home. 

But  the  wide,  wide  lands  that  stretched  away 
Before  my  eyes  in  the  days  of  May— 

The  rolling  pi-airie's  billowy  swell 
Breezy  upland  and  the  timljered  dell, 

Stately  mansion  and  hut  forlorn — 
All  are  hidden  by  walls  of  corn. 

All  the  wide  world  is  narrowed  down 
To  walls  of  corn,  now  sere  and  brown. 

"What  do  they  hold,  those  walls  of  corn. 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn? 

He  who  questions  may  soon  be  told, 

A  great  State's  wealth  these  walls  unfold. 

No  sentinels  guard  these  walls  of  corn, 
Never  is  sounded  the  warder's  horn; 

Yet  the  pillars  are  hung  with  gleaming  gold, 
Left  all  unbarred  though  thieves  are  bold : — 

Clothes  and  food  for  the  toiling  poor. 
Wealth  to  heap  at  the  rich  man's  door; 

Meat  for  the  healthy,  and  balm  for  him 
Who  moans  and  tosses  in  chambers  dim ; 

Shoes  for  the  barefooted,  pearls  to  twine 
In  the  scented  tresses  of  ladies  fine; 

Things  of  use  for  the  lowly  cot, 

Where  (bless  the  corn)  want  cometli  not; 

Luxuries  rare  for  the  mansion  grand. 
Gifts  of  a  rich  and  fertile  land. 

All  these  things,  and  so  many  more 
It  wovild  fill  a  book  to  name  them  o'er, 


258  SAMUEL  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE. 

Are  hid  and  lield  in  walls  of  corn, 

Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn. 

Where  do  they  stand,  these  walls  of  corn. 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn? — 

Open  the  atlas,  conned  by  rule 

In  the  olden  days  of  the  district  school ; 

Point  to  the  rich  and  bounteous  land 
That  yields  such  fruits  to  the  toiler's  hand. 

"  Treeless  desert,''  they  called  it  then. 
Haunted  by  beasts  and  forsook  by  men. 

Little  they  knew  what  wealth  untold 
Lay  hid  where  the  desolate  prairies  rolled. 

Who  Avould  have  dared,  with  brush  or  pen, 
As  this  land  is  now,  to  paint  it  then? 

And  how  Avould   the   wise  ones  have   lau^liod  in 

scorn, 
Had  the  prophet  foretold  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn ! 

ALLIBONE,  Samuel  Austin,  LL.D.,  an 
American  bibliographer,  born  in  Philadel- 
phia, April  17,  1816.  Although  actively  en- 
gaged in  mercantile  business,  he  was  an  ear- 
nest student  in  English  literature,  edited  for 
several  years'the  publications  of  the  "  Ameri- 
can Sunday  School  Union."  and  contributed 
largely  to  the  North  American  Reinew  and 
other  periodicals.  In  1882  he  became  libra- 
rian of  the  newly -established  "Lenox  Li- 
brary "  in  New  York.  His  works,  which  are 
mainly  bibliographical  compilations,  include  a 
Critical  Dictionary  of  English  Literature  (3 
Vols.,  1858-1871),  Poetical  Quotations,  from 
Chaucer  to  Tennyson  (1873),  Pt^ose  Quota- 
tions, from  Socrates  to  Macaulay  (1875),  and 
Great  Authors  of  All  Ages  (1879).  His  great- 
est work  is  the  Critical  Dictionary  of  English 
Literature,  from  the  earhest  period  down  to 
the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth    century, 


SAMUEL  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE.  2r,9 

"containing  over  40,0(10  autliors,  with  fdi'ty 
indexes  of  subjects."  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
there  is  scarcely  a  writer  in  the  language  who 
has  during  the  long  period  in  question  pro- 
duced any  book  worthy  of  remembrance,  who 
is  not  described  with  more  or  less  detail  in  these 
volumes.  The  articles  relating  to  the  great 
writers  in  our  language  are  full  as  to  the 
works  themselves,  and  embodying  also  the 
critical  estimates  of  them  as  enunciated  by 
the  best  authorities.  In  the  Preface  and  In- 
troduction to  this  work  Mr.  Allibone  sets 
forth  with  some  minuteness  the  object  which 
he  had  in  view  in  its  compilation.  We  group 
together  a  few  of  his  most  characteristic  sen- 
tences : 

PUKPOSE     OF    THE   DICTIONARY    OF   ENGLISH     LIT- 
ERATURE. 

It  has  been  computed  that  of  the  6.ii0,U0O  vol- 
umes iu  the  English  language,  about  50,000  would 
repay  a  perus:il.  Suppose  a  person  to  read  100 
pages  a  day,  or  100  volumes  a  year,  it  would  re- 
quire .500  years  to  exhaust  such  a  library.  How 
important  is  it,  then,  to  know  what  to  read;  and 
how  shall  this  knowledge  be  obtained  ?  If  there 
be  an  advantage  in  full  delinition,  in  alphabetical 
arrangement,  and  consequent  facility  of  reference 
in  a  Dictionary  of  Words,  why  should  we  not 
have  a  Dictionary  of  Books  and  Authors,  as  well 
as  of  Words  ?  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that,  not- 
withstanding the  obvious  advantages  of  such  a 
work,  there  was  none  such  in  print  before  the 
present  publication.  There  were,  Indeed,  meagre 
"Compendiums"  of  English  Literature,  and 
"Comprehensive  Cyclopsedias,"  the  largest  of 
which  (with  the  exception  of  a  book  of  titles  of 
Works)  contains  about  850  out  of  more  than  30,0U0 
authors.  Much  of  such  knowledge,  too,  is  found 
scattered  here  and  there  in  expensive  biograph- 
ical compilations,  which  can  never  become  popu- 
lar, because  very  costly,  and  are,  indeed,  insuffi- 
cient authorities  in  literary  history.  Deeply  la- 
menting  this   serious   deficiency   in   the   English 


SnO  SAMUEL  AUSTIN  ALLIBOXE. 

Republic  of  Letters,  the  compiler  determined  to 
undertake  the  preparation  of  the  long-desired 
work,  and  he  has  now  the  pleasure  of  presenting 
to  the  public  the  result  of  his  labors  extending 
over  a  long  period,  and  pursued  with  unwearied 
zeal.  The  principal  features  of  the  work  are  the 
following: 

1.  It  is  arranged  in  alphabetical  order,  to  insure 
facility  of  reference. — 2.  While  professing  to 
chronicle  only  British  and  American  authors,  we 
have  sometimes  overlooked  the  question  of  nativ- 
ity, and  enrolled  a  writer  whose  insignia  of  liter- 
ary nobility  coidd  properly  be  quartered  on  an 
English  field;  such  as  Anselm,  Lanfranc,  Benoit 
De  Sainte  Maur,  Peter  of  Blois,  and  Joseph  Blanco 
White. — 3.  As  a  general  rule,  a  succinct  biography' 
is  given  of  each  author  of  note.  The  length  of 
such  notice,  of  course,  depends  upon  his  jiromi- 
nence  as  an  individual,  and  his  rank  as  an  author. 
Those  of  the  first  class,  numbering  several  thou- 
sands, are  treated  at  considerable  length;  less 
space  is  devoted  to  those  less  distinguished. — i. 
Compilers  of  manuals  of  literature  have  almost  uni- 
versally fallen  into  the  great  error  of  giving  their 
own  opinions  almost  exclusively  upon  the  merits 
of  the  authors  under  consideration.  Now  these 
opinions  may  be  valuable  or  not.  This  capital  error 
is  avoided  in  the  present  work.  The  compiler  oc- 
casionally ventures  an  opinion  of  his  own ;  but  this 
will  be  merely  supplemental  to  opinions  better 
known  and  moi-e  highly  appreciated  by  the  reading 
public.  As  a  carefully  prepared  record  of  the 
opinions  of  great  men  upon  great  men,  this  book 
will  prove  an  invaluable  guide  to  the  student  of 
literary  history. — 5.  The  laudable  curiosity  of 
the  bibliomaniac,  or  lover  of  rare  works,  is  not 
forgotten  in  these  volumes. — 6.  The  second  divis- 
ion of  the  work  consists  of  a  copious  Index  of  Sub- 
jects, so  that  the  inquirer  can  find  at  a  glance 
all  the  authors  of  any  note  in  the  language,  ar- 
ranged under  the  suliject  or  subjects  upon  which 
they  have  written.  The  compiler  thus  presents  to 
the  public,  in  a  single  work,  a  Comprehensive 
Manual  of  English  Literature — Authors  and  Sub- 
jects— a  Manual  which  is  to  the  Literature  of  the 


WILLIAJI  ALLINGIIAM.  2f;l 

lanj;ua<?e  what  an  ordinary  Dictionary   is  to  the 
Words  of  the  language.  .  .  . 

In  conclusion,  we  would  impress  upon  our 
readers  the  duty  of  the  zealous  pursuit  of  those 
paths  of  learning  and  science  which  lead  to  useful- 
ness, happiness,  and  honor.  Be  not  dismayed  by 
the  apparently  unattractive  character  of  much  of 
the  scenery  through  which  you  must  pass.  Per- 
severe; and  distaste  will  soon  yield  to  pleasure, 
and  repugnance  give  place  to  enjoyment.  An 
ever-present  and  influential  sense  of  the  import- 
ance of  the  goal  will  do  wonders  in  overcoming  the 
difficulties  of  the  way.  To  those  Israelites  whose 
hearts  fainted  for  a  sight  of  their  beloved  Temple, 
the  sands  of  the  desert  and  the  perils  of  the  road 
presented  no  obstacles  which  their  energy  and 
their  faith  could  not  surmount.  The  arid  "  Val- 
ley of  Baca"  to  them  became  a  well;  for,  in  the 
beautiful  language  of  the  Psalmist,  "  the  rain  also 
filleth  the  pools."— Pre/ace  to  Dictionai-y  of  Eng- 
lish Literature. 

ALLINGHAM,  William,  a  British  poet, 
born  at  Ballyshannon,  Ireland,  in  1828.  He 
began  to  contribute  to  literary  periodicals  at 
an  early  age,  and,  removing  to  England,  he 
was  appointed  to  a  position  in  the  Customs. 
For  several  years  he  was  editor  of  Fraser's 
Magazine,  in  which  many  of  his  poems  first  ap- 
peared. Among  these  is  Laicrence  Bloomfield 
in  Ireland,  which  contains  nearly  5,000  lines, 
and  sketches  the  characteristic  features  of 
contemporary  Irish  life.  His  first  volume  of 
Poems  was  published  in  1850.  This  was 
followed  by  Day  and  Night  Songs  (1854) ;  Fiftij 
Modern  Poems  (1865),  and  Songs,  Poems,  and 
Ballads  (1877),  consisting  of  revised  versions 
of  many  pieces  before  published,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  many  new  ones.  His  Lawrence 
Bloomfield  was  also  republished  in  a  separate 
volume  in  1869.  In  1874  he  was  married  to 
Helen  Paterson  (b.  in  1848),  wdio  is  an  artist 
of  very  decided  merit  in  Avater  colors  and  as 


■2C,2  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

a  draughlsmau  u]>on  wood. — Althougli  Mr. 
Alliiigiuun  is  of  English  descent,  and  has  re- 
sided during  most  of  his  manhood  in  or  near 
London,  most  of  the  themes  of  his  poetry  are 
derived  from  his  native  Ireland.  His  birth- 
place, Ballyshannon,  is  fondly  referred  to  as 

The  kindly   spot,  the  friendly  town,  where  every 

one  is  known, 
And  not  a  face  in  all  the  place  but  partly  seems 

my  own. 
Mr.  Allingham's  poems,  though  not  rising 
to  the  highest  grade  of  art,  are  yet  genuine 
in  their  way,  evincing  a  fine  feeling  for  na- 
ture, graceful  fancy,  and  poetic  diction,  free 
from  all  obscurity  and  mysticism. 

TO   TIIF.    NIOlITIXfiAI-ES. 

You  sweet  fastidious  mgh  ting-ales  I 
The  myrtle  blooms  in  Irisli  vales, 
By  Avundliu  and  rich  Loui;li  Lene, 
Throui^h  many  a  <;rove  and  bowerlet  green, 
Fair-mirrored  round  the  loitering  skitf. 
The  i)urple  peak,  the  tinted  cliff, 
The  glen  where  mountain-torrents  rave, 
'  And  foliage  blinds  their  leaping  wave. 
Broad  emerald  meadows  filled  with  flowers, 
Embosomed  ocean-bays  are  ours 
With  all  their  isles;  and  mystic  towers 
Lonely  and  gray,  deserted  long, 
Less  sad  if  they  might  hear  that  perfect  song! 
What  scared  ye  ?  (ours,  I  think,  of  old) 
The  sombre  fowl  hatched  in  the  cold  ? 
Kino;  Henry's  Xormans,  mailed  and  stern, 
Smiters  of  galloglas  and  kern  ? 
Or,  most  and  worst,  fraternal  feud. 
Which  sad  lerne  long  hath  rued  ? 
Forsook  ye,  when  the  Geraldine, 
Great  chieftain  of  a  glorious  hne, 
Was  haunted  on  his  hills  and  slain. 
And,  one  to  France  and  one  to  Spain, 
The  remnant  of  the  race  withdrew  ? 
Was  it  from  Anarchy  ye  Hew, 
And  fierce  Oppression's  bigot  crew, 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  2m 

Wild  complaint,  and  menace  hoarse, 
Misled,  misleading  voices,  loud  and  coarse  ? 

Come  back,  O  birds,  or  come  at  last ! 
For  Ireland's  furious  days  are  past; 
And,  purged  of  enmity  and  wrong, 
Her  eye,  her  step,  grow  calm  and  strong. 
Why  should  we  miss  that  pure  delight  ? 
Brief  is  the  journey,  swift  the  flight; 
And  Hesper  finds  no  fairer  maids 
In  Spanish  bowers  or  English  glades, 
No  loves  more  true  on  any  shore, 
No  lovers  loving  music  more. 
Melodious  Erin,  warm  of  heart. 
Entreats  you ;  stay  not  then  apart, 
But  bid  the  merles  and  throstles  know 
(And  ere  another  May-time  go) 
Their  place  is  in  the  second  row. 
Come  to  the  west,  dear  nightingales! 
The  rose  and  myrtle  bloom  in  Irish  vales. 

ALLSTON,  Washington,  an  xVmerican 
painter  and  author,  born  at  Georgetown,  S.C, 
in  1779,  died  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  July  8, 
1843.  He  entered  Harvard  College  in  1796, 
and  afterwards  began  the  study  of  medicine, 
which  he  soon  abandoned  for  art.  He  went 
to  London,  where  he  became  intimate  with 
his  countryman,  Benjamin  West,  then  Presi- 
dent of  the  Royal  Academy.  In  1804  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Rome,  where  he  remained  several 
years,  finally  returning  to  America  in  1809. 
Two  years  after  he  again  visited  Europe,  and 
gained  the  prize  of  200  guineas  ofEered  by  the 
British  Institution.  In  1819,  after  having 
been  chosen  an  Associate  of  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy, he  took  up  his  permanent  residence  at 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  devoting  himself  to  art 
and  letters.  He  is  best  known  as  a  painter, 
the  subjects  of  most  of  his  pictures  being 
draw-n  from  the  Old  Testament.  He  was  for 
many  years  engaged  upon  a  great  work, 
Belshazzar's  Feast,  which  was  painted  over 


264  WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

and  over,  and  was  finally  left  unfinished.  He 
was  twice  married;  his  first  wife,  who  died  in 
1813,  being  the  sister  of  William  Ellery  Chan- 
ning ;  the  second,  to  whom  he  was  married  in 
1830,  was  a  sister  of  Richard  H.  Dana.  He 
had  the  capacity  of  taking  a  high  rank 
among  the  authors,  as  well  as  the  painters  of 
his  generation ;  but  his  published  writings  are 
few.  They  might  all  be  comprised  in  two 
moderate  volumes.  In  prose  there  is  MonakU, 
an  Italian  romance,  published  in  1841,  but 
written  at  least  twenty  years  before;  The 
Hypochondriac,  a  short  Magazine  story,  and 
four  Lectures  on  Art.  He  had  intended  to 
write  two  more  lectures ;  but  although  the  first 
w^as  written  about  1830,  the  series  was  never 
completed,  and  the  four  were  not  published 
imtil  after  his  death,  when  they  were  given  to 
the  press  by  Richard  H.  Dana,  Jr.,  with  a 
brief  memoir  of  the  author.  This  volume 
also  contains  the  poetical  works  of  Allston. 
These  consist  of  The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons, 
published  in  1813,  and  some  other  poems 
written  at  intervals  during  many  years. 
Among  these  are  America  to  Great  Britain, 
in  1810,  which  was,  seven  years  later,  inserted 
by  Coleridge  hi  his  Sibylline  Leaves,  with  the 
following  note:  "This  poem,  written  by  an 
American  gentleman,  a  valued  and  dear 
friend,  I  communicate  to  the  reader  for  its 
moral  no  less  than  its  poetic  spirit." 

AMERICA   TO   EXGLAXD. 

All  liail !  thou  noble  land, 
Our  Fathers'  native  soil! 
O,  stretch  tliy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shot's! 
For  tliou  with  magic  miglit 
Canst  reach  to  wlicre  tlie  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er! 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON.  2(35 

The  Genius  of  our  clime 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  guest  sublime ; 
While  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  couchs  the  kindred  league  shall  pro- 
claim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine; — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line 
Like  the  milky-way  shall  shiuo 
Bright  in  fame. 

Though  ages  long  have  past 

Since  our  Fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  jiilot  in  the  blast, 
O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  Bard  of  Avon  sung. 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host; — 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Kound  our  coast; — 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts — 
Between  let  Ocean  roll, 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  Sun. 
Yet  still  from  either  beach 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach. 
More  audible  tlian  speech: 
"We  arc  One." 

Several  of  Allston's  Sonnets  are  of  high 
merit.     Among  them  are : 


263  WASHINGTON  ALLSTON. 

ON   THE   FREXCH     REVOLUTION. 

The  Eavtli  lias  had  her  visitation.     Like  to  this 
She  hath  not  icnown,   save  when  the  mounting 

waters 
Made  of  her  orb  one  universal  ocean. 
For  now  the  Tree  that  grew  in  Paradise, 
That  deadly  Tree  that  first  gave  Evil  motion, 
And  sent  its  poison   through  Earth's   sons   and 

daughters, 
Had  struck  again  its  root  in  every  land, 
And  now  its  f  rui-t  was  ripe— about  to  f  all— 
And  now  a  mighty  Kingdom  raised  the  hand. 
To  pluck  and  eat.     Then  from  his  throne  stepped 

forth 
The  King  of  Hell,  and  stood  upon  the  Earth: 
But  not,  as  once,  upon  the  Earth  to  crawl. 
A  Nation's  congregated  form  he  took 
Till,  drunk  with  Sin  and  blood,  Earth  to  her  cen- 
tre shook. 

ON  ART. 
O  Art,  high  gift  of  Heaven!  how  oft  defamed 
When  seeming  praised!    Ti>  most  a  craft  that  fits, 
By  dead  prescriptive  Kule,  the  scattered  bits 
Of  gathered  knowledge ;  even  so  misnamed 
By  some  who  would  invoke  thee;  but  not  so 
By  him— the  noble  Tuscan— who  gave  birth 
To  forms  unseen  of  Man,  unknown  to  Earth, 
Now  living  habitants.     He  felt  the  glow 
Of  thy  revealing  touch,  that  brought  to  view 
The  invisible  Idea;  and  he  knew. 
E'en  by  his  inward  sense,  its  form  was  true: 
'Twas  life  to  life,  responding— the  highest  Truthi 
So  tlirough  Elisha's  faith,  the  Hebrew  youth 
Beheld  the  thin  blue  air  to  fiery  chariots  grow. 

ON   THE   I. ATE   S.    T.    COLERIDGE. 

And  art  thou  gone,  most   loved,    most  honored 

friend ! 
No,  never  more  thy  gentle  voice  shall  blend 
With  air  of  Earth  its  pure  ideal  tones, 
landing  in  one,  as  with  harmonious  zones, 
Tlie  Heart  and  Intellect.     And  I  no  more 
Shall  with  thee  gaze  on  that  uufatlunucd  deep. 


AMADIS  OF  GAUL.  267 

T]u!  Iliinian  Soul;  as  when,  ])usliod  off  the  shore, 
Thy   mystic  bark    would  through    the    darkness 

sweei), 
Itself  the  while  so  l)vij;]it!     For  oft  we  seemed 
As  ou  some  starless  sea — all  dark  above, 
All  dark  below ;  yet,  onward  as  we  drove, 
To  plough  up  light  that  ever  round  us  streamed. 
But  he  who  mourns  is  not  as  one  bereft 
Of  all  he  loved :  thy  living  Truths  are  left. 

ox   IMMORTALITY. 

To  think  for  aye;  to  breathe  immortal  breath; 
And  know  nor  hope,  nor  fear,  of  ending  Death; 
To  see  the  myriad  woilds  that  round  us  roll 
Wax  old  and  perish,  while  the  steadfast  Soul 
Stands    fresh    and    moveless    in     her    sphere    of 

Thought: 
O  God,  omnipotent!  who  in  me  wrought 
This  conscious  world,  whose  ever-growing  orb — 
"When  the  dead  Past  shall  all  in  Time  absorb — 
Will  be  but  as  l>ogun :     O,  of  thine  own, 
Give  of  tlic  holy  Light  that  veils  thy  throne, 
That  darkness  be  not  mine,  to  take  my  place 
Beyond  the  reach  of  light,  a  blot  in  space! 
So  may  this  wondrous  Life  fr(jm  sin  made  free 
Reflect  thy  Love  for  aye,  and  to  thy  glory  be. 

AMADIS  OF  Gaul  is  the  mythical  hero  of 
one  of  the  most  famous  of  the  romances  of 
Chivah'y.  The  romance  was  written  by  the 
Portuguese  Vasco  de  Lobeira,  who  died  in 
1403.  The  original  Portuguese  story  has  per- 
ished, and  a  Spanish  version  made  by  Mon- 
talvo,  nearly  a  century  later,  is  iii'actically 
the  original  of  the  romance,  as  we  have  it, 
which  was  a  great  favorite  in  its  day,  was 
translated  into  many  languages,  expanded 
into  many  times  its  original  length,  and  was 
perhaps  the  best,  certainly  the  most  popular, 
of  the  romances  of  Chivalry.  xVmadis,  in  the 
romance,  is  the  son  of  a  king  of  Gaul,  Avho  is 
represented  to  have  lived  somewhere  about 
tlie  beginning  of  the  Christian  era.  He  goes 
through  many  adventures  in  all  the  known 


268  A>[ADTS  OF  GAT'L. 

and  unknown  woi'kl,  and  marries  Oriana, 
daughter  of  Lisuarte,  King  of  North  Britain. 
One  of  the  most  characteristic  and  most 
pleasing  passages  in  this  romance  is  that 
whicli  describes  the  early  loves  of  Amadis 
and  Oriana: 

AJIADIS   AND  ORIANA. 

I^ow  Lisuarte  brou<4lit  witli  him  to  Scotland 
Briseiia,  his  wife,  and  a  daughter  that  he  had  by 
her  when  he  dwelt  in  Denmark,  named  Oriana. 
about  ten  years  old,  and  the  fairest  creature  that 
ever  was  seen;  so  fair  that  she  was  called  "  With- 
out Peer,"  since  in  her  time  there  Avas  none  equal 
to  her.  And  because  she  sulfered  much  from  the 
sea,  he  consented  to  leave  her  there,  asking  the 
King  Laguines,  and  his  Queen,  that  they  Avould 
take  care  of  her.  And  they  were  very  glad  there- 
with; and  the  Queen  said,  "Trust  me  that  I  will 
have  such  a  care  of  her  as  a  mother  would.'" 

And  Lisuarte,  entering  into  his  shijis,  made 
haste  back  into  Great  Britain,  and  found  there 
some  who  had  made  disturbances,  such  as  are 
wont  to  be  in  such  cases.  And  for  this  cause,  he 
remembered  not  him  of  his  daughter,  for  some 
space  of  time.  But  at  last,  with  much  toil  that  he 
took,  lie  obtained  his  kingdom ;  and  lie  was  the  best 
King  that  ever  was  before  his  time;  nor  did  any 
afterwards  better  maintain  Knightliood  in  its 
rights,  till  King  Arthur  reigned,  who  surpassed 
all  the  kings  before  him  in  goodness;  though  the 
number  that  reigned  between  these  two  was 
great. 

And  now  Lisuarte  reigned  in  peace  and  quiet>- 
ness  in  Great  Britain.  The  Child  of  the  Sea, 
Amadis,  was  twelve  years  old,  but  in  size  and 
limbs  seemed  to  be  fifteen.  He  served  before  the 
Queen,  and  Avas  much  loved  of  her,  as  he  was  of 
all  the  ladies  and  damsels.  But  as  soon  as  Ori- 
ana, the  daughter  of  King  Lisuarte,  came  there, 
she  gave  to  her  the  Child  of  the  Sea,  that  he 
should  serve  her,  saying,  "  This  is  a  child  who 
shall  serve  you."  And  she  answered  that  it 
pleased  her.     And  the  child  kept  this  word  in  his 


AMADLS  OF  GAUL.  269 

heart,  in  sncli  wise  tliat  it  never  afterwards  left 
it;  and,  as  this  liistory  truly  says,  he  was  never, 
in  all  the  days  of  his  life,  wearied  with  serving 
her.  And  this  their  love  lasted  as  long  as  they 
lasted.  But  the  Chiki  of  the  Sea,  who  knew  not 
at  all  how  she  loved  him,  held  himself  to  be  very 
bold,  in  that  he  had  placed  his  thoughts  on  her; 
considering  both  her  greatness  and  her  beauty, 
and  never  so  muLli  as  dared  to  speak  any  word  to 
her  concerning  it.  And  she,  tliough  she  loved 
him  in  her  heart,  took  heed  that  she  should  not 
speak  with  him  more  than  with  another.  But  her 
eyes  took  great  solace  in  showing  to  her  heart 
what  thing  in  the  world  she  most  loved. 

Thus  they  lived  silently  together,  neither  saying 
aught  to  the  other  of  this  estate.  Then  came,  at 
last,  the  time  when  the  Child  of  the  .Sea  under- 
stood witliin  himself  that  he  might  take  arms,  if 
any  there  were  that  would  make  him  a  Knight. 
And  this  he  desired,  because  he  considered  that 
he  should  thus  become  such  a  man  and  should  do 
such  things  as  that  either  he  should  perish  in 
them,  or,  if  he  lived,  that  then  his  lady  should 
deal  gently  with  him. 

And  with  this  desire  he  went  to  the  King,  who 
was  in  his  garden,  and  kneeling  before  him,  said: 
"  Sire,  if  it  please  you,  it  is  now  time  that  I  should 
be  made  a  Knight,"  and  the  King  said,  "How, 
Child  of  the  Sea,  do  you  already  adventure  to 
maintain  Knighthood?  Know  that  it  is  a  light 
matter  to  come  by  it,  but  a  weighty  thing  to  main- 
tain it.  And  whoso  seeks  to  get  this  name  of 
Knighthood  and  maintain  it  in  its  honor,  he  hath 
to  do  so  many  and  such  grievous  things  that 
often  his  heart  is  wearied  out;  and  if  he  should  be 
such  a  Knight  that,  from  faint-heartedness  or 
cowardice,  he  should  fail  to  do  what  is  beseeming, 
then  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  die  than  to  live 
in  shame.  Therefore  I  hold  it  good  that  you  wait 
yet  a  little."  But  the  Child  of  the  Sea  said  to 
iiim:  "  Neither  for  all  this  will  I  fail  to  be  a 
Knight;  for,  if  I  had  not  thought  to  fulfil  this 
that  you  have  said,  my  heart  would  not  so  have 
striven  to  be  a  Knight." — Transl.  o/Ticknor. 
19 


270  FISHER  AMES. 

AMES,  Fisher,  an  American  statesman 
and  writer,  born  at  Dedham,  Mass.,  April  9, 
1758,  and  died  there,  July  4,  1808.  He  gradu- 
ated at  Harvard  College  in  1774;  was  a 
teacher  for  a  short  time ;  studied  law ;  wrote 
occasionally  on  political  topics  in  the  news- 
papers; was  chosen  as  representative  to  the 
State  Legislature  in  1788 ;  and  in  the  follow- 
ing year  was  elected  as  representative  in  the 
first  Congress  convened  under  the  new  Con- 
stitution. He  retained  his  seat  throughout 
the  two  terms  of  the  administration  of  Wash- 
mgton,  whose  policy  received  his  earnest 
support.  His  most  notable  speech  in  Con- 
gress was  delivered  April  28,  1796,  in  support 
of  a  motion  "  that  it  is  Qxpedient  to  pass  the 
laws  necessary  to  carry  into  effect  the  treaty 
lately  concluded  between  the  United  States 
and  the  King  of  Great  Britain."  His  health 
had  by  this  time  become  greatly  impaired; 
and  in  the  opening  of  this  speech  he  said :  "  I 
entertain  the  hope — perhaps  a  rash  one — that 
my  strength  will  hold  me  out  to  speak  a  few 
minutes."  After  leaving  Congress  he  retired 
to  his  farm  at  Dedham,  still  however  writing 
largely  upon  public  affairs.  In  Februai-y, 
1800,  at  the  request  of  the  Legislature  of 
Massachusetts,  he  delivered  a  Eulogy  on 
Washington,  and  in  1804  wrote  an  apprecia- 
tive Sketch  of  the  Character  of  Alexander 
Hamilton,  who  had  been  recently  killed  in  a 
duel  with  Aaron  Burr.  A  collection  of  the 
Works  of  Fisher  Ames  was  issued  in  18.54  by 
his  son.  It  comprises  a  brief  Memoir,  a  large 
number  of  Letters,  his  most  important 
Speeches  and  a  score  or  two  of  political, 
literary,  and  miscellaneous  Essays.  The  Es- 
say on  American  Literature,  written  early  in 
the  present  century,  does  not  present  a  very 
flattering  picture  of  its  condition  and  pros- 
pects at  that  period. 


FISriEU  AMES.  271 

EAKLY   AMERICAN   LITERATURE. 

Fevv  speculative  subjects  have  exercised  the 
passions  more,  or  the  judgment  less,  than  the  in- 
(juiry  what  rank  our  country  is  to  maintain  in  the 
world  for  genius  and  literary  attainments.  It 
might  indeed  occur  to  our  discretion  that,  as 
the  only  admissible  proof  of  literary  excellence  is 
the  measure  of  its  effects,  our  national  claims 
ought  to  be  abandoned  as  worthless  the  moment 
they  are  found  to  need  asserting.  Nevertheless, 
by  a  proper  spirit  and  constancy  in  j^raising  our- 
selves, it  seems  to  be  sui:)posed,  the  doubtful  title 
of  our  vanity  may  be  quieted  in  the  same  manner 
as  it  was  once  supposed  the  currency  of  the  Con- 
tinental paper  could,  by  a  universal  agreement,  be 
established  at  par  with  specie.  Yet  such  was  the 
unpatriotic  i^erverseness  of  our  citizens,  they  pre- 
ferred the  gold  and  silver,  for  no  better  reason 
than  because  the  paper  bills  were  not  so  good. 
And  now  it  may  happen  that,  from  spite  or  envy, 
from  want  of  attention  or  the  want  of  our  sort  of 
information,  foreigners  will  dispute  the  claims  of 
our  preeminence  in  genius  and  literature,  not- 
withstanding the  great  convenience  and  satisfac- 
tion we  should  find  in  their  acquiescence.  As  the 
world  will  judge  of  the  matter  with  none  of  our 
partiality,  it  may  be  discreet  to  anticipate  that 
judgment,  and  to  explore  the  grounds  upon  which 
it  is  probable  the  aforesaid  world  will  frame  it. 
And,  after  all,  we  should  suffer  more  pain  than 
loss,  if  we  should  in  the  event  be  stripped  of  all 
that  does  not  belong  to  us;  and  especially  if,  by  a 
better  knowledge  of  ourselves,  we  should  gain  that 
modesty  which  is  the  first  evidence,  and  perhaps 
the  last,  of  a  real  improvement.  For  no  man  is 
less  likely  to  increase  his  knowledge  than  the 
coxcomb,  who  fancies  he  has  already  learned  it 
out.  An  excessive  national  vanity — as  it  is  the 
sign  of  mediocrity,  if  not  of  barbarism — is  one  of 
the  greatest  impediments  to  knowledge. 

It  will  be  useless  and  impertinent  to  say,  a 
greater  proportion  of  our  citizens  have  had  in- 
struction in  schools  than  can  be  found  in  any 
European  state.  It  may  be  true  that  neither 
France  nor  England  can  boast  of  so  large  a  portion 


272  FISHEE  AMES. 

of  their  population  wlio  can  read  and  write,  and 
who  are  versed  in  the  profitable  mystery  of  the 
Rule-of-Tliree.  This  is  not  the  footing  upon 
which  the  inquiry  is  to  proceed.  The  question  is 
not,  what  proportion  are  stone-blind,  or  how 
many  can  see,  when  the  sun  shines;  but  what  gen- 
iuses have  arisen  among  us,  like  the  sun  and  stars, 
to  shed  life  and  splendor  on  our  hemisphere. 

The  case  is  no  sooner  made,  than  all  the  fire-fly 
tribe  of  our  authors  perceive  their  little  lamps  go 
out  of  themselves,  like  the  flame  of  a  candle, 
when  lowered  into  the  mephitic  vapor  of  a  well. 
Excepting  the  writers  of  two  able  works  on  our 
politics,  we  have  no  authors.  To  enter  the  lists  in 
single  combat  against  Hector,  the  Greeks  did  not 
offer  the  lots  to  the  nameless  rabble  of  fcheir 
soldiery.  All  eyes  were  turned  upon  Agamemnon 
and  Ajax,  upon  Diomed  and  Ulysses.  Shall  we 
match  Joel  Barlow  against  Homer  or  Hesiod  ? 
Can  Thomas  Paine  contend  against  Plato  ?  Or 
could  Findley's  history  of  his  own  insurrection 
vie  with  Sallust's  narrative  of  Catiline's  ? 

There  is  no  scarcity  of  spelling-book  makers, 
and  authors  of  twelve-cent  pamphlets;  and  we 
have  a  distinguished  few — a  sort  of  literary  nobil- 
ity— whose  works  have  grown  to  the  dignity  and 
size  of  an  octavo  volume.  We  have  many  writers 
who  have  I'ead,  and  who  have  the  sense  to  under- 
stand what  others  have  written.  But  a  right  per- 
ception of  the  genius  of  others  is  not  genius. 
Nobody  will  pretend  that  the  Americans  are  a 
stupid  race;  nobody  will  deny  that  we  justly 
boast  of  many  able  men,  and  exceedingly  useful 
Ijublications.  But  has  our  country  produced  one 
great  original  work  of  genius  ?  If  we  tread  the 
sides  of  Parnassus,  we  do  not  climb  its  heights; 
we  even  creep  in  our  path,  by  the  light  that  Euro- 
pean genius  has  thrown  upon  it.  Is  there  one 
luminary  in  our  firmament  that  shines  with  unbor- 
rowed rays  ? 

Mr.  Ames  proceeds  in  this  Essay  to  point 
out  what  he  regarded  as  the  probable  course 
which  American  Hterature  would  run.  His 
political  bias  here  crops  out  most  notably. 


FISHER  AMES.  273 

He  was  a  Federalist,  and  the  Federal  party- 
had  suffered  defeat.  The  Republicans  were 
dominant ;  and  Jefferson  was  the  exponent  of 
what  was  then  styled  "  Republicanism,"  what 
we  now  style  "Democracy,"  and  what  in 
Fisher  Ames's  view  was  "  Demagoguery ; " 
something  which,  in  his  judgment,  was 
utterly  opposed  to  anything  which  deserved 
the  name  of  literature.    He  says: 

"Surely  we  are  not  to  look  for  genius  amoiio- 
demao-ogues ;  the  man  who  can  descend  so  low  has 
seldom  very  far  to  descend.  As  experience  evin- 
ces that  popularity — in  other  words,  consideration 
and  power — is  to  be  procured  by  the  meanest  of 
mankind — the  meanest  in  spirit  and  understand- 
ing— and  in  the  worst  of  ways,  it  is  obvious  that  at 
present  the  excitement  to  genius  is  next  to  noth- 
ing. If  we  had  a  Pindar,  he  would  be  ashamed 
to  celebrate  our  chief,  and  would  be  disgraced  if 
he  did.  But  if  he  did  not,  his  genius  would  not 
obtain  his  election  for  a  selectman  in  a  Demo- 
cratic town.  It  is  party  that  bestows  emolument, 
power,  and  consideration,  and  it  is  not  excellence 
in  the  sciences  that  obtains  the  suffrages  of 
party." 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  at  the  time 
when  this  was  written — about  1805 — Thomas 
Jefferson,  then  President  of  the  United  States, 
and  the  unquestioned  chief  of  his  party,  was 
the  best  cultured  man  in  America,  and  there 
wei*e  few  for  whom,  in  this  respect,  superi- 
ority could  be  claimed  in  Europe.  But  in  the 
view  of  Fisher  Ames  he  was  only  a  coarse 
vulgar  demagogue.  Mr.  Ames  goes  on  to  put 
forth  his  prognostications  as  to  the  future  of 
literatvire  in  America.     He  says : 

"But  the  condition  of  the  United  States  is 
changing.  Luxury  is  sure  to  introduce  want,  and 
the  great  inequalities  between  the  very  rich  and  the 
very  poor  will  be  more  conspicuous,  and  compre- 
hend a  more  formidable  liost  of  the  latter.     J^very 


274  FISHER  AMES. 

step  (and  we  have  taken  many)  towards  a  more 
complete,  unmixed  Democracy  is  an  advance 
toward  destruction.  Liberty  has  never  yet  lasted 
long  in  a  Democracy;  nor  has  it  ever  ended  in 
anything  better  than  Despotism.  With  the  change 
in  our  Government,  our  manners  and  sentiments 
will  change.  As  soon  as  our  Emperor  has  de- 
stroyed his  I'ivals,  and  established  order  in  his 
army,  he  will  desire  to  see  splendor  in  his  court, 
and  to  occupy  his  sul)jects  with  the  cultivation  of 
the  sciences.  If  this  catastrophe  of  our  public 
liberty  should  be  miraculously  delayed  or  pre- 
vented, still  we  shall  change.  With  the  augmen- 
tation of  Avealth  there  will  be  an  increase  of  the 
numbei'Avho  may  choose  a  literary  leisure.  Liter- 
ary curiosity  will  become  one  of  the  new  appe- 
tites of  the  nation;  and,  as  luxury  advances,  no 
new  appetite  will  be  denied.  After  some  ages  we 
shall  have  many  poor,  and  a  few  rich;  many 
grossly  ignorant,  a  considerable  number  learned, 
and  a  few  eminently  learned.  Nature,  never  prod- 
igal of  her  gifts,  will  produce  some  men  of  genius, 
Avho  will  be  admired  and  imitated." 

The  Eulogy  upon  Washington  is  undoubt- 
edly the  most  elaborately  prepared  of  all  the 
wi'itings  of  Fisher  Ames.  A  few  sentences 
must  here  suffice  to  rex)resent  some  of  its 
prominent  characteristics : 

CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON. 

It  is  natural  that  the  gratitude  of  mankind 
should  be  drawn  to  their  benefactors.  A  number 
of  these  iiave  successively  arisen,  who  were  no 
less  distinguished  for  the  elevation  of  their  virt- 
ues than  the  lustre  of  their  talents.  But  for 
their  country  and  the  whole  human  race,  how  few 
alas,  are  i-ecorded  in  the  long  annals  of  ages,  and 
how  wide  the  intervals  of  time  and  space  that 
divide  them  1  In  all  this  dreary  length  of  way, 
they  appear  like  five  or  six  light-houses  on  as 
many  thousand  miles  of  coast.  They  gleam  upon 
the  siirrounding  darkness  with  an  unextinguisha- 
ble  splendor,  like  stars  seen  through  a  mist;  but 
they  are  seen  like  stars,  to  cheer,  to  guide,  and  to 


FISIIER  AMES.  275 

save.  Washington  is  now  addcfl  to  that  small 
number.  By  commemorating  his  death  we  are 
called  this  day  to  yield  the  homage  that  is  due  to 
virtue;  to  confess  the  common  debt  of  mankind 
as  well  as  our  own ;  and  to  pronounce  for  poster- 
ity, now  dumb,  that  eulogium  which  they  will  de- 
light to  echo  ten  ages  hence,  when  we  are 
dumb 

A  lavish  and  undistinguishing  eulogium  is  not 
praise.  I  know  that  some  would  prefer  a  picture 
drawn  to  the  imagination.  They  would  have  our 
Washington  represented  of  a  giant's  size,  and  in 
the  character  of  a  hero  of  romance.  Others— I 
hope  but  few— who  think  meanly  of  human  na- 
ture, will  deem  it  incredible  that  even  Washing- 
ton should  think  with  as  much  dignity  and  eleva- 
tion as  he  acted;  and  they  will  grovel  in  the  search 
for  mean  and  seltish  motives  that  could  incite  and 
sustain  him  to  devote  his  life  to  his  country.  .  .  . 

Our  nation,  like  its  great  leader,  had  only  to 
take  counsel  from  its  courage.  When  Washing- 
ton heard  the  voice  of  his  country  in  distress,  his 
obedience  was  prompt,  and  though  his  sacrifices 
were  great,  they  cost  him  no  effort.  When  over- 
matched by  numbers,  a  fugitive,  with  a  little  band 
of  faithful  soldiers— the  States  as  much  exhausted 
as  dismayed,  he  explored  his  own  undaunted 
heart,  and  there  found  resources  to  retrieve  our 
affairs.  We  have  seen  him  display  as  much  valor 
as  gives  fame  to  heroes,  and  as  consummate  pru- 
dence as  insures  success  to  valor;  fearless  of  dan- 
gers that  were  personal  to  him,  hesitating  and 
cautious  when  they  affected  his  country;  prefer- 
ring fame  before  safety  or  repose,  and  duty  before 
fame.  Rome  did  not  owe  more  to  Fabius,  than 
America  to  Washington.  Our  nation  shares  with 
him  the  singular  glory  of  having  conducted  a 
civil  war  with  mildness,  and  a  revolution  with 
order.  .  .  . 

However  his  military  fame  may  excite  the  won- 
der of  mankind,  it  is  chiefly  by  his  civil  magis- 
tracy that  his  example  will  instruct  them.  His 
presidency  will  form  an  epoch,  and  be  distin- 
guished as  "  The  Age  of  Washington."  Already 
it  assumes  its  high  place  in   the  political  region. 


276  FISHER  AMES. 

Like  the  Milky-Way  it  wliitens  alonj^  its  allotted 
portion  of  the  hemisphere.  The  latest  generations 
of  men  will  survey,  through  the  telescope  of  his- 
tory, the  space  where  so  many  virtues  blend 
their  rays,  and  delight  to  separate  into  groups 
and  distinct  virtues. — Eulogy  u2)ou  Waaldnyton. 

In  the  brief  sketch  of  Alexander  Hamilton, 
the  character  of  that  great  political  leader  is 
thus  summed  up : 

THE   CHAHACTEK   OF   HAMILTON. 

His  early  life  we  pass  over;  though  his  heroic 
spirit  in  the  aimy  has  furnished  a  theme  that  is 
dear  to  patriotism  and  will  be  sacred  to  glory. — In 
all  the  different  stations  in  which  a  life  of  active 
usefulness  has  placed  hinr,  we  find  him  not  more 
remarkably  distinguished  by  the  extent  than  l)y 
tlie  variety  and  versatility  of  his  talents.  In  every 
place  he  made  it  apparent  that  no  other  man 
could  have  filled  it  so  well;  and  in  times  of  criti- 
cal importance,  in  which  alone  he  desired  employ- 
ment, his  services  were  justly  deemed  absolutely 
indispensable.  As  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  his 
was  the  most  powerful  si:)irit  that  i)resided  over 
the  chaos.  Indeed  in  organizing  the  Federal 
Government  in  1789,  every  man  of  either  sense  or 
candor  will  allow,  the  difficulty  seemed  greater 
than  the  first-rate  al)ilities  could  surmount.  He 
surmounted  them;  and  Washington's  administra- 
tion was  the  most  wise  and  beneficent,  the  most 
prosperous,  and  ought  to  be  the  most  popular, 
that  ever  was  intrusted  with  the  affairs  of  a  na- 
tion. Great  as  was  Washington's  merit,  much  of 
it  in  plan,  much  in  execution,  will  of  course  de- 
volve upon  his  Minister. 

As  a  lawyer,  Hamilton's  comprehensive  genius 
reached  the  principles  of  his  profession.  He  com- 
passed its  extent,  he  fathomed  its  profound, 
perhaps  even  more  familiarly  and  easily  than  the 
ordinary  rules  of  its  practice.  AVith  most  men 
law  is  a  trade;  with  him  it  was  a  science. 

As  a  statesman  he  was  not  more  distinguished 
by  the  great  extent  of  his  views,  than  by  the  cau- 
tion with  which  he  provided  against  impediments, 


F1«11EU  AMES.  277 

and  tlie  watchfulness  of  his  care  over  right  and 
the  liberty  of  the  subject.  In  none  of  the  many 
revenue  bills  which  he  framed— though  Commit- 
tees reported  them— is  there  to  be  found  a  single 
clause  that  savors  of  despotic  power;  not  one  that 
the  sagest  champions  of  law  and  liberty  would,  on 
that  ground,  hesitate  to  approve  and  adopt. 

It  is  rare  that  a  man  who  owes  so  mvich  to  na- 
ture descends  to  seek  more  from  industry,  but 
Hamilton  seemed  to  depend  on  industry,  as  if 
nature  had  done  nothing  for  him.  His  habits  of 
investigation  were  very  remarkable;  his  mind 
seemed  to  cling  to  a  subject  till  he  had  exhausted 
it.  Hence  the  uncommon  superiority  of  his  rea- 
soning jiowers — a  superiority  that  seemed  to  be 
augmented  from  every  source,  and  to  be  fortified 
by  every  auxiliary — learning,  wit,  imagination, 
and  eloquence 

Some  have  plausibly,  though  erroneously,  in- 
ferred, from  the  great  extent  of  his  abilities,  that 
his  ambition  was  inordinate.  This  is  a  mistake. 
Such  men  as  have  a  painful  consciousness  that 
their  stations  happen  to  be  far  more  exalted  than 
their  talents,  are  generally  the  most  ambitious. 
Hamilton,  on  the  contrary,  though  he  had  many 
competitors,  had  no  rivals;  for  he  did  not  thirst 
for  power,  nor  would  he,  as  was  well  known,  de- 
scend to  office.  He  was  perfectly  content  and  at 
ease  in  private  life.  Of  what  was  he  ambitious  ? 
Not  of  wealth;  no  man  held  it  cheaper.  Was  it  of 
popularity  ?  That  Aveed  of  the  dunghill,  he  knew, 
when  rankest,  was  nearest  to  withering.  A  vulgar 
ambition  could  as  little  comprehend  as  satisfy  his 
views.  He  thirsted  only  for  that  fame  which  Virt- 
ue would  not  blush  to  confer,  nor  Time  to  con- 
vey to  the  end  of  his  course. 

The  only  ordinary  distinction  to  which,  we  con- 
fess, he  did  aspire,  was  military;  and  for  that,  in 
the  event  of  a  foreign  war,  he  would  have  been 
solicitous.  He  undoubtedly  discovered  the  pre- 
dominance of  a  soldier's  feelings;  and  all  that  is 
honor  in  the  character  of  a  soldier  was  at  home  in 
his  heart.  His  early  education  was  in  the  camji; 
there  the  first  fervors  of  his  genius  were  poured 
forth,   and  his  earliest  and   most  cordial   friend- 


278  FISHER  AMES. 

ships  formed.  Those  who  knew  him  best,  and 
especially  in  the  army,  will  believe,  that  if  occa- 
sions had  called  him  forth,  he  was  qualified,  be- 
yond any  man  of  his  age,  to  display  the  talents  of 
a  great  general.  It  may  be  very  long  before  our 
country  will  want  such  military  talents;  it  Avill 
probably  be  much  longer  before  it  will  again  pos- 
sess them. — Sketch  of  the  Character  of  Alexander 
Hamilton. 

The  political  writings  of  Fisher  Ames— 
either  in  the  form  of  private  letters  or  of 
newspaper  articles,  constitute  the  bulk  of  his 
Works  as  put  forth  by  his  son.  The  following 
is  an  extract  from  one  of  these  ncAvspaper 
articles  pviblished  in  the  summer  of  1804. 
The  burden  of  this  and  many  others  of  about 
the  same  date,  is  that  the  "Jacobin"  admin- 
istration of  Jefferson  w^as  like  to  result  in 
something  like  the  Imperial  Des^jotism  of  Na- 
poleon. 

THE   POLITICAL,  OUTLOOK    IX   1804. 

Let  any  man  who  has  any  understanding,  exer- 
cise it  to  see  that  the  American  Jacobin  Party,  by 
rousing  the  popular  passions,  inevitably  augments 
the  powers  of  Government,  and  contracts  Avithin 
narrower  bounds,  and  on  a  less  sound  foundation, 
the  privileges  of  the  people.  Facts — yes,  facts, 
that  speak  in  terror  to  the  soul — confirm  this 
speculative  reasoning.  What  limits  are  there  to 
the  prerogatives  of  the  present  Administi-ation  ? 
and  whose  business  is  it,  and  in  whose  power  does 
it  lie,  to  keep  them  within  those  limits  ?  Surely 
not  in  the  Senate:  the  small  States  arc  now  in 
vassalage,  and  tliey  obey  the  nod  of  Virginia. 
Not  in  the  Judiciary:  that  fortress  which  the 
Constitution  had  made  too  strong  for  an  assault, 
can  now  be  reduced  by  famine.  The  Constihition  : 
alas!  that  sleeps  with  Washington,  having  no 
mourners  but  the  virtuous,  and  no  monument  but 
History.  Louisiana — in  open  and  avowed  defi- 
ance of  tlie  Constitution — is  by  treaty  to  be 
added  to  the  Union;  the  bread  of  the  children  of 
the  Union  is  to  be  taken  and  given  to  the  dogs.— 


THOMAS  AMUUV.  27!» 

Judge  then,  good  men  and  true— judge  l>y  tlie 
effects— whether  the  tendency  of  the  intrigues  of 
the  party  was  to  extend  or  contract  the  measure 
of  popular  liberty.  Judge  whether  the  little  fin- 
ger of  Jefferson  is  not  thicker  than  the  loins  of 
Washington's  administration;  and  after  you  have 
judged,  and  felt  the  terror  that  will  be  inspired 
by  the  result,  then  reflect  how  little  your  efforts 
can  avail  to  pi>event  the  continuance,  nay,  the 
perpetuity  of  powder.  Eellect,  and  be  calm.  Pa- 
tience is  the  virtue  of  slaves,  and  almost  the  only 
one  that  will  pass  for  merit  with  their  masters.— 
Political  Essays. 

AMORY,  Thomas,  a  British  novelist  and 
humorist,  born,  probably  in  Ireland,  in  1692, 
died  in  London,  in  1789.  He  was  educated  as  a 
physician,  but  did  not  practice  as  such,  having 
inherited  a  considerable  estate  from  his  father, 
who  was  secretary  of  the  commission  for  con- 
fiscated estates  in  Ireland.  He  wrote  several 
works  of  fiction,  the  principal  of  which  are 
Memoirs  of  Several  Ladies  of  Great  Britain, 
and  The  Life  and  Opinions  of  John  Buncle, 
Esq.  He  appears  to  have  portrayed  his  own 
character  in  the  delineation  of  the  hero  of 
this  last  work.  "John  Buncle,"  says  Haz- 
litt,  "is  the  English  Eabelais.  The  soul  of 
Francis  Rabelais  passed  into  Thomas  Amory. 
Both  were  physicians,  and  enemies  of  too 
much  gravity.  Their  great  business  was  to 
enjoy  life.  Rabelais  indulges  his  spirit  of 
sensuality  in  wine,  in  dried  meats,  tongues, 
in  Bologna  sausages,  in  Botorgas.  John  Bun- 
cle shows  the  same  symptoms  of  inordinate 
satisfaction  in  bread-and-butter.  While  Ra- 
belais roared  with  Friar  John  and  the  monks, 
John  Buncle  gossiped  with  the  ladies,  etc." 

John  Buncle  had  seven  successive  wives. 
The  description  of  the  wives  is  ample  enough ; 
while  not  a  word  is  said  of  their  numerous 
progeny.  He  thus  explains  his  theory  upon 
this  matter : 


280  THOMAS  AMORY. 

bungle's  wives  and  children. 
I  think  it  iinreasonable  and  impious  to  grieve 
immoderately  for  the  dead.  A  decent  and  proper 
tribute  of  tears  and  sorrow  humanity  requires; 
hut  when  tliat  duty  lias  been  paid,  we  must  re- 
member that  to  lament  a  dead  womah  is  not  to 
lament  a  wife.  A  wife  must  be  a  living  woman. 
....  As  I  mention  nothing  of  my  children  by  so 
many  wives,  some  readers  may  pei'haps  wonder 
at  this ;  and,  therefore — to  give  a  general  answer 
once  for  all — I  think  it  sufficient  to  observe,  that 
I  had  a  great  many  to  carry  on  the  succession  ;  but 
as  they  never  were  concerned  in  any  extraordinary 
affairs,  nor  ever  did  any  remarkable  things,  that  I 
ever  heard  of — only  rise  and  breakfast,  read  and 
sauntei',  drink  and  eat — it  would  not  be  fair,  in 
my  opinion,  to  make  any  one  pay  for  their  history. 

And  so,  instead  of  telling  about  his  chil- 
dren, John  Buncle  gives  profound  disserta- 
tions upon  the  origin  of  earthquakes,  on  mus- 
cular motion,  ujion  phlogiston  and  fluxions, 
upon  the  Athanasian  Creed,  and  a  score  or 
two  alike  related  topics.  Bulwer-Lytton's 
"  Caxton "  novels  are  in  many  points  near 
kindred  with  Amory's  Life  and  Opinions  of 
John  Buncle.  Among  the  quiet  passages  of 
this  work  is  John  Buncle's  account  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Marin  da  Bruce — the  first  of  his 
seven  duly  lamented  wives : 

BUNCLE   AND   MARINDA. 

In  the  year  1739  I  travelled  many  hundred 
miles  to  visit  ancient  monuments  and  discover 
curious  things;  and  as  I  wandered,  to  this  purpose 
among  the  vast  hills  of  Nortiuimberland,  fortune 
conducted  me  one  evening,  in  the  month  of  June, 
when  I  knew  not  where  to  rest,  to  the  sweetest 
retirement  my  eyes  have  ever  beheld.  This  is 
Hali-farm.  It  is  a  beautiful  vale  surrounded  with 
rocks,  forest,  and  water.  I  found  at  the  upper 
end  of  it  the  prettiest  thatched  house  in  the  world, 
and  a  garden  of  the  most  artful  confusion  I  had 
ever   seen.     The   little   mansion   was    covered   on 


THOMAS  AMORY.  281 

every  side  with  the  Ihiest  flowery  f^reens.  The 
streams  all  round  were  murmuring  and  falling  a 
thousand  ways.  All  the  kind  of  singing-birds 
were  here  collected,  and  in  high  harmony  on  the 
sprays.  The  ruins  of  an  abbey  enhance  the  beau- 
ties of  this  place;  they  appear  at  the  distance  of 
four  hundred  yards  from  the  house;  and  as  some 
great  trees  are  now  grown  up  among  the  remains, 
and  a  river  winds  between  the  broken  walls,  the 
view  is  solemn,  the  picture  fine. 

When  I  came  up  to  the  house,  the  first  figure  I 
saw  was  the  lady  whose  story  I  am  going  to  relate. 
She  had  the  charms  of  an  angel,  but  her  dress  was 
quite  plain  and  clean  as  a  country-maid.  Her 
person  appeared  faultless,  and  of  the  middle  size, 
between  the  disagreeable  extremes  ;  her  face,  a 
sweet  oval,  and  her  complexion  the  brunette  of  the 
bright  rich  kind;  her  mouth,  like  a  rosebud  that 
is  just  beginning  to  blow;  and  a  fugitive  dimple, 
by  fits,  would  lighten  and  disappear.  The  finest 
passions  were  always  passing  in  lier  face;  and  in 
her  long,  even,  chestnut  eyes,  there  was  a  fluid 
five,  sufficient  for  half-a-dozen  pair. 

She  had  a  volume  of  Shakespeare  in  her  hand  as 
I  came  softly  towards  her,  having  left  my  horse  at 
a  distance  with  my  servant;  and  her  attention  was 
so  much  engaged  with  the  extremely  poetical  and 
fine  lines  which  Titania  speaks  in  the  third  act  of 
the  MkUuiHiner  JViglifs  Dream,  that  .she  did  not 
see  me  till  I  was  cpiite  nea,v  her.  She  seemed  then 
in  great  amazement.  She  could  not  be  much 
more  surprised  if  I  had  dropped  from  the  clouds. 
But  this  was  soon  over,  upon  my  asking  her  if  she 
was  not  the  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Bruce,  as  I  sup- 
posed from  a  similitude  of  faces,  and  informing 
lier  that  her  father,  if  I  was  right,  was  my  near 
friend,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  his  chum  in  that 
part  of  the  world.  Marinda  replied:  "You  are  not 
wrong,"  and  immediately  asked  me  in.  She  con- 
ducted me  to  a  parlor  that  was  quite  beautiful  in 
the  rural  way,  and  welcomed  me  to  Hali-farm,  as 
her  father  would  have  done,  she  said,  had  I  ar- 
rived before  his  removal  to  a  better  world.  She 
then  left  me  for  awhile,  and  I  had  time  to  look 
over  the  room  I  was  in.     The   floor  was  covered 


282  anac;reon. 

with  rushes  wrought  into  the  prettiest  mat,  and 
the  walls  decorated  all  round  with  the  finest  flow- 
ers and  shells.  Eobins  and  nightingales,  the  finch 
and  the  linnet,  were  in  the  neatest  reed  cages  of 
her  own  making,  and  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
chamber,  in  a  charming  little  open  grotto,  was 
the  finest  strlx  capite  aurito,  corpore  rufo,  that  I 
have  seen,  that  is,  the  great  eagle  owl.  This  beau- 
tiful bird,  in  a  niche  like  a  ruin,  looked  vastly 
fine.  As  to  the  flowers  wliich  adorned  this  room, 
I  thought  they  were  all  natural  at  my  first  coming 
in;  but  on  inspection,  it  appeared  that  several 
baskets  of  the  finest  kinds  were  inimitably  jjainted 
on  the  walls  by  Marinda's  hand. 

These  things  afforded  me  a  pleasing  entertain- 
ment for  about  half  an  hour,  and  then  Miss  Bruce 
returned.  One  of  the  maids  brought  in  a  supper 
— such  fare,  she  said,  as  her  little  cottage  att'orded; 
and  the  table  was  covered  with  green  peas  and 
pigeons,  cream-cheese,  new  bread  and  butter. 
Everything  was  excellent  in  its  kind.  The  cider 
and  ale  were  admirable.  Discretion  and  dignity 
apjjeared  in  Marinda's  behavior;  she  talked  with 
judgment;  and  under  the  decencies  of  ignorance 
was  concealed  a  valuable  knowledge. — Life  and 
Opinions  of  John  Buncle. 

ANACREON,  a  Greelc  lyric  poet,  born  in 
the  Ionian  town  of  Teos,  in  Asia  Minor,  about 
563  B.C.,  and  died  in  the  neighboring  tow^n  of 
Abdera,  about  478  B.  c.  Of  the  events  of  his 
hfe  very  Uttle  is  positively  known,  though 
legends  of  questionable  authority  relate  many 
incidents ;  such  as  that  he  was  invited  to  the 
island  of  Sanios  to  instruct  Poly  crates,  the 
son  of  the  ruler  of  the  island  in  music ;  tliat 
he  rose  high  in  the  favor  of  his  pupil  when 
he  became  ruler  of  the  island ;  that  after  the 
overthrow  of  Polycrates,  Anacreon  was  in- 
vited to  Athens  by  Hipparchus,  the  son  of 
Pisistratus ;  after  whose  assassination,  he  re- 
paired to  Larissa,  in  Thessaly,  w^hich  was 
then  ruled  by  Echecratidas,  sprung  from  an 
Ionian  family ;  and  that,  in  his  old  age  he  re- 


ANACREON.  283 

turned  to  his  native  countiy,  where  he  died 
in  his  eighty-fifth  year,  having  been  choked 
by  attenii^ting  to  swallow  a  -cherry-pit  or, 
according  to  others,  a  dried  grape.  His  writ- 
ings, consisting  of  odes,  epigrams,  elegies, 
iambics,  and  hymns,  were  nmnerous.  At  the 
time  of  Suidas  (eleventh  century  a.d.),  it  is 
said  that  five  books  of  these  poems  Avere  still 
extant.  Since  then  all  of  these  have  perished 
except  about  sixty  short  odes,  and  a  few  frag- 
ments; and  even  the  genuineness  of  these 
odes  has  been  warmly  dispvited  by  recent 
German  critics,  who  maintain  that  their  ver- 
sification shows  that  they  belong  to  a  period 
some  centuries  later  than  the  time  of  Ana- 
creon. — The  citizens  of  Teos  certainly  held 
the  memory  of  Anacreon  in  high  esteem. 
They  placed  his  effigy  upon  their  coins,  some 
of  which  are  now  extant.  These  indeed 
represent  a  very  different  man  from  what 
one  would  expect  the  Avriter  of  the  existing 
Anacreontics  to  have  been.  The  face  is 
coarse  and  brutal — almost  Silenus-like.  In 
Athens  also  a  statue  was  erected  in  his  honor, 
representing  him  as  a  drunken  singer. — The 
"Anacreontic  Odes  "which  are  now  extant, 
whether  written  by  the  Teian  bard  or  not — 
are  among  the  most  graceful  remains  of 
Greek  poetry.  They  are,  indeed  for  the  most 
part  amatory  or  convivial;  but  they  are 
wonderfully  free  from  all  taint  of  grossness 
or  sensuality.  The  love-poems  might  be  re- 
cited in  the  most  modest  household,  and  the 
drinking-songs  sung  at  the  most  decorous 
banquet.  The  merit  of  these  poems,  indeed, 
lies  in  the  manner  rather  than  in  the  matter. 
There  are  few  poems  which  can  be  less 
adequately  repi-esented  by  translation  into 
any  modern  language.  The  best  translations 
into  English  are  those  of  George  Bourne  and 
Thomas  Moore.     Bourne,  though  amplifying 


284  ANAGREON. 

somewhat,  keeps  pretty  close  to  the  text, 
while  Moore's  version,  though  the  tone  is 
fairly  preserved,  is  rather  a  paraphrase  than 
a  translation.  We  give  specimens  of  both  of 
these  translators : 

ON    HIS    LYRE. 

While  I  sweep  the  sounding  string, 
While  the  Atiidaj's  praise  I  sing — 
Victors  on  the  Trojan  plain — 
Or  to  Cadmus  raise  the  strain, 
Hark,  in  soft  and  wliispered  sighs. 
Love's  sweet  notes  the  shell  replies. 

Late  I  strung  my  harp  anew. 
Changed  the  strings — the  subject  too. 
Loud  I  sung  Alcides's  toils; 
Still  the  lyre  my  labor  foils; 
Still  with  Love's  sweet  silver  sounds 
Every  martial  theme  confounds. 
Farewell,  Heroes,  Chiefs,  and  Kings! 
Naught  but  Love  will  suit  my  strings. 
— Transl.  o/Boukne. 

THE  WEAPON  OF  BEAUTY. 

Pointed  horns — the  dread  of  foes — 
Nature  on  the  Bull  bestows; 
Horny  hoofs  the  Hoi'se  defend ; 
Swift-winged  feet  the  Hare  befriend; 
Lions'  gaping  jaws  disclose 
Dreadful  teeth  in  grinning  rows; 
Wings  to  Birds  her  care  supplied  ; 
Fmny  Fishes  swim  the  tide; 
Nobler  gifts  to  Man  assigned. 
Courage  firm,  and  Strength  of  Mind. 

From  her  then  exhausted  store 
Naught  for  Woman  has  she  more? 
How  does  Nature  prove  her  care? — 
Beauty's  charms  is  Woman's  share. 
Stronger  far  than  warrior's  dress 
Is  her  helpless  loveliness. 
Safety  smiles  in  Beauty's  eyes; 
She  the  hostile  flame  defies; 
Fiercest  swords  submissive  fall: — 
Lovely  Woman  conquers  all. 
— Transl.  of  Bourne. 


ANACllEON.  285 

CUPID   AS   A   GUEST. 

'Twas  at  the  solemn  midnight  hour, 
When  silence  reigns  with  awful  power, 
Just  when  the  bright  and  glittering  Bear 
Is  yielding  to  her  Keeper's  care, 
When  spent  with  toil,  with  care  opprest, 
Man's  busy  race  has  sunk  to  rest, 
Sly  Cupid,  sent  by  cruel  Fate, 
Stood  loudly  knocking  at  my  gate. 

*'  Who's  there?  "  I  cried,  "  at  this  late  hour? 
Wlio  is  it  batters  at  my  door? 
Begone!  you  break  my  blissful  dreams!"— 
But  he,  on  mischief  bent,  it  seems, 
With  feeble  voice  and  piteous  cries. 
In  childish  accents  thus  replies : 

"Be  not  alarmed,  kind  Sir;  'tis  I, 
A  littfe,  wretched,  wandering  boy; 
Pray  ope  the  door,  I've  lost  my  way 
This  moonless  night,  alone  I  stray; 
I'm  stiff  with  cold;  I'm  drenched  all  o'er; 
For  pity's  sake,  pray,  ope  the  door!" 

Touched  witli  this  simple  tale  of  woe, 
And  little  dreaming  of  a  foe, 
I  rose,  lit  up  my  lamp,  and  straight 
Undid  the  fastenings  of  the  gate; 
And  there,  indeed,  a  boy  I  spied. 
With  bow  and  quiver  by  his  side. 
Wings  too  he  wore — a  strange  attire ! 
My  guest  I  seated  near  the  fire. 
And  while  the  blazing  fagots  shine, 
I  chafed  his  little  hands  in  mine; 
His  damp  and  dripping  locks  I  wrung, 
That  down  his  shoulders  loosely  hung. 

Soon  as  his  cheeks  began  to  glow, 
"  Come  now,"  he  cries,  "  let's  try  this  bow; 
For  much  I  fear  this  rainy  night. 
The  wet  and  damp  have  spoiled  it  quite." — 
That  instant  twanged  the  sounding  string, 
Loud  as  the  whizzing  gad-fly's  wing. — 
Too  truly  aimed,  the  fatal  dart 
My  bosom  pierced  with  painful  smart. — 
Up  sprang  the  l)oy  with  laughing  eyes. 
And,  "  Wish  me  joy,  mine  host!"  he  cries; 
20 


286  ANACEEON. 

"My  bow  is  sound  in  every  part; 
Thou'lt  lind  the  arrow  in  thy  heart!" 
— Transl.  of  Bourne. 

The  Poet — be  he  the  Teian  Anaoreon  or 
some  singer  otherwise  unknown  and  unnamed 
— gives  to  "the  best  of  Life-Painters,"  some 
hints  as  to  the  picture  which  should  be  made 
of  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  is  a  pretty  bit  of 
word-painting — far  prettier  in  the  original 
than  in  the  best  translations.  Moore  comes 
nearest  to  reproducing  it  in  ovir  language : 

THE   IDEAL   rOKTRAIT. 

Thoii  whose  soft  and  rosy  hues, 
Mimic  form  and  soul  iniuse; 
Best  of  Painters,  come  ])ortray 
Tlie  lovely  maid  that's  far  away. 
Far  away,  my  Soul,  tliou  art, 
But  I've  thy  beauties  all  by  heart. — 

Paint  her  jetty  ringlets  straying, 
Silky  twine  in  tendrils  playing; 
And,  if  painting  hatli  the  bkill 
To  make  the  balmy  spice  distill. 
Let  every  little  lock  exhale 
A  sigh  of  perfume  on  the  gale. 

Where  her  tresses'  curly  flow 
Darkles  o'er  the  brow  of  snow. 
Let  her  foreliead  beam  to  light, 
Burnished  as  the  ivory  bright. 
Let  her  eyebrows  sweetly  rise 
In  jetty  arches  o'er  her  eyes, 
(iently  in  a  crescent  gliding. 
Just  commingling,  just  dividing. 

But  hast  thou  any  sparkles  warm 
The  lightning  of  her  eyes  to  form? — 
Let  them  effuse  the  azure  ray 
"With  which  Minerva's  glances  play; 
And  give  them  all  that  liquid  lire 
That  Venus's  languid  eyes  respire. 

O'er  her  nose  aud  cheek  be  shed 
Flushing  white  aud  mellowed  red; 
Gradual  tints,  as  when  there  glows 
In  snowy  milk  tlie  basliful  rose. 


ANACREON".  287 

Then  her  lip,  so  rich  in  blisses; 
Sweet  petitioner  for  kisses; 
Pouting  nest  of  bland  persuasion, 
Eipely  suing  love's  invasion! 

Then,  beneath  the  velvet  ehiir, 
Whose  dimple  shades  a  Love  within, 
Mould  her  neck,  with  grace  descending, 
In  a  heaven  of  beauty  ending; 
While  airy  charms,  above,  belovv^, 
Sport  and  flutter  on  its  snow. 

Now  let  a  floating  lucid  veil 
Shadow  her  limbs,  but  not  conceal. 
A  charm  may  peep,  a  hue  may  beam ; 
And  leave  the  rest  to  Fancy's  dream. — 
Enough— 'tis  she!  'tis  all  I  seek; 
It  glows,  it  lives,  it  soon  will  speak ! 
— Trand.  uf  Moobe. 

The  Anacreontic  convivial  songs  would 
have  been  regarded  as  very  tame  in  later 
days  of  hard-drinking.  There  is  only  one  of 
them  in  which  there  is  anything  which  incul- 
cates more  than  an  altogether  moderate  in- 
dulgence in  the  wine-cup : 

IN  PKAISE   OF   WINE. 

When  the  nectar' d  bowl  I  drain, 
Gloomy  cares  foi-ego  their  reign; 
Richer  than  the  Lydian  king 
Hymns  of  love  and  joy  I  sing; 
Ivy  Avreaths  my  temples  twine 
And  wliile  careless  I  recline, 
While  bright  scenes  my  vision  greet 
Tread  the  world  beneath  my  feet. 
Fill  the  cup,  my  trusty  page ; 
Anacreon,  the  blithe  and  sage, 
As  his  maxim  ever  said, 
"  Those  slain  by  wine  are  nobly  dead.' 
— Traml.  of  Bourne. 

PLEA    FOB    DETNKING. 

The  Earth  drinks  up  the  genial  rains, 
Which  deluge  all  her  thirsty  plains; 
The  lofty  Trees  that  pierce  the  sky 
Drink  up  the  earth  and  leave  her  dry; 


288  ANACREON. 

The  insatiate  Sea  imbibes  each  hour 
The  welcome  breeze  that  brings  the  shower; 
The  Sun,  whose  fires  so  fiercely  burn, 
Absorbs  the  waves,  and  in  her  turn 
The  modest  Moon  enjoys  each  night 
Large  draughts  of  his  celestial  light. 
Then,  sapient  sirs,  pray  tell  me  why, 
If  all  things  drink,  why  may  not  I  ? 
— Transl.  of  BouitNE. 

MODKEATION  IX   WINE. 

Haste !  haste  thee,  boy,  and  bring  the  bowl, 

To  quench  the  fever  of  the  soul. 

The  copious  stream  with  skill  combine ; 

Add  ten  parts  water,  five  of  wine. 

The  copious  draught  will  thirst  assuage, 

Nor  in  the  breast  too  fiercely  rage. 

O  cease,  my  friends,  for  shame  give  o'er 
These  clamorous  shouts,  that  deafening  roar. 
This  Scythian  scene  all  peace  destroys; 
Turns  joy  to  madness,  mirth  to  noise; 
Let  cheerful  temperance  rule  the  soul — 
Tlie  best  ingredient  in  the  bowl. 

— Transl.  of  Boukne. 

Some  of  the  most  pleasing  of  these  odes  are 
inspired  by  the  various  aspects  of  nature, 
animate  and  inanimate. 

UPON  SPRING. 

See  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring, 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  spangled  wing; 
While  virgin  Graces,  warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o'er  her  dewy  way! 

The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languished  into  silent  sleep; 
And  mark!  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  reflecting  wave, 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

Xow  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away. 
And  cultured  field  and  winding  stream 
Are  sweetlv  tissued  by  his  beam. 


ANACKEON.  288 

Xow  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  tiowery  bells; 
Gemmino'  shoots  the  olive  twine, 
Clusters  ripe  festoon  the  vine; 
All  alonj;-  the  branches  creeping, 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping. 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see, 
Nursing  into  luxury. 
-lyund.  of  MooKE. 

TO    THE    CICADA. 

O  thou,  of  all  creation  lilest, 

Sweet  insect  I  that  delight'st  to  rest 

Upon  the  wild  wood's  leafy  tops. 

To  drink  the  dew  that  morning  drops, 

And  chirp  thy  song  with  such  a  glee 

That  happiest  kings  may  envy  thee! 

Whatever  decks  the  velvet  field, 
Whate'er  the  circling  seasons  yield, 
Whatever  buds,  Avhatever  blows. 
For  thee  it  buds,  feu-  thee  it  grows. 
Nor  art  thou  yet  the  peasant's  fear. 
To  him  thy  friendly  notes  are  dear, 
For  tlnni  art  mild  as  matin  dew, 
And  still,  when  Summer's  flowery  hue 
Begins  to  paint  the  bloomy  plain. 
We  hear  thy  sweet  prophetic  strain ; 
Thyeweet  prophetic  strain  we  hear, 
And  bless  the  notes,  and  thee  revere. 
The  Muses  love  thy  shrilly  tone ; 
Apollo  calls  thee  for  his  own; 
'Twas  he  who  gave  that  voice  to  thee; 
'Tis  he  that  tunes  thy  minstrelsy. 

tJnworn  by  age's  dim  decline, 
The  fadeless  blooms  of  youth  are  thine. 
Melodious  insect!  child  of  earth! 
In  wisdom  mirthful,  wise  in  mirth- 
Exempt  from  every  weak  decay 
That  withers  vulgar  frames  away, 
With  not  a  drop  of  blood  to  stain 
The  current  of  thy  purer  vein ; 
So  blest  an  age  is  passed  by  thee, 
Thou  seem'st  a  little  deity. 
-Transl.  of  Mooke. 


290  ANACKEON. 

TO   THE   SWALLOW. 

Once  in  each  revolving  year, 
Gentle  bird!  we  tind  thee  here. 
When  Nature  wears  her  Summer  vest, 
Thoii  comest  to  weave  thy  simple  nest; 
But  when  the  chilling  Winter  lowers. 
Again  thou  seek'st  the  genial  bowers 
Of  Memphis  or  the  shores  of  Nile, 
Where  sunny  hoiirs  of  verdure  smile. 
And  thus  thy  wing  of  freedom  roves, 
Alas!  unlike  the  plumed  Loves 
That  linger  in  this  liapless  breast. 
And  never,  never,  change  their  nest! 

Still,  every  year,  and  all  the  year 
A  flight  of  Loves  engenders  here; 
And  some  their  infant  plumage  try, 
And  on  a  tender  winglet  Hy; 
While  in  the  shell,  impregned  with  fires, 
Cluster  a  thousand  more  Desires; 
Some  from  their  tiny  prisons  peeping, 
And  some  in  formless  embryo  sleeping. 

My  bosom,  like  the  vernal  groves, 
Resounds  with  little  warbling  l^ovcs; 
One  urchin  imps  the  other's  feather, 
Then  Twin-Desires,  they  wing  together. 
And  still,  as  they  have  learned  to  soar, 
The  wanton  babies  teem  witli  more. 
—Transl.  of  Mooke. 

Anacreon— if  we  may  assume  these  Odes  to 
be  the  production  of  the  Teian  poet— seems 
to  have  passed  into  a  genial  old  age ;  at  times 
making  light  of  the  inroads  of  age;  but  at 
other  times  looking  back  regretfully  upon  his 
vanished  youth,  and  forebodingly  toward 
the  unknown  future. 

APPROACHING  AGE. 

"Anacreon,"  the  women  say, 

"  Old  fellow,  you  have  had  your  day; 

Consult  your  mirror,  mark  with  care 

How  scanty  now  your  silver  hair; 

Old  wintry  Time  has  shed  his  snows. 

And  bald  and  bare  your  forehead  shows!"— 


ANACREON.  291 

But,  faith,  I  know  not  where  they've  ^one, 
Or  if  I've  any  left,  or  none; 
But  this  I  know,  that  every  day, 
Shall  see  me  sportive  blithe,  and  gay; 
For  'tis  our  wisdom  so  to  do, 
The  nearer  Death  appears  in  view. 
— Transl.  of  Boukne. 

LIVE   WHILE  WE   LIVE. 

C(3uld  glittering  heaps  of  golden  ore 
Life  preserve  or  health  restore. 
Then,  with  ceaseless,  anxious  pain, 
Riches  would  I  strive  to  gain, 
That,  should  Death  unwished  for  come, 
Pointing  to  the  dreary  tomb, 
I  might  cry,  in  sprightly  tone, 
"Hei-e's  my  ransom,  Death!  begone!" 

But  alas,  since  well  I  know 
Life  cannot  be  purchased  so, 
Why  indulge  the  useless  sigh? 
Fate  decrees  that  all  shall  die. 
Vainly  to  our  wealth  we  trust, 
Poor  or  wealthy— die  we  must. — 
Present  joys  then  let  me  share, 
Rosy  wine  to  banish  care; 
Cheerful  friends  that  faithful  prove, 
Beauty's  smile,  and  blissful  love. 
—Transl.  o/Bourxe. 

LOOKING    BACKWARD   AND    FORWARD. 

Alas!  my  youth,  my  joys  have  fled. 

The  snows  of  age  have  bleached  my  head; 

Tedious,  toothless,  trembling  age, 

Must  now  alone  my  thoughts  engage. 

Adieu,  ye  joys  which  once  I  knew, 

Tq  Life,  to  Love,  to  All,  adieu! — 

Henceforth,  unhappy !   doomed  to  know 

Tormenting  fears  of  future  woe ! 

Oh,  how  my  soul  with  terror  shrinks, 

Whene'er  my  startled  fancy  thinks 

Of  Pluto's  dark  and  gloomy  cave. 

The  chill,  the  cheerless,  gaping  grave! 

When  Death's  cold  hand  hath  closed  these  eyes! 

And  stifled  life's  last  struggling  sighs. 


292         HANS  C'HKISTIAX  ANDERSEN. 

In  darkness  and  in  dust  must  I, 
Alas  I  forever — ever  lie! 
— Transl.  of  BoriiNE. 

ANDEESEN,  Hans  Christian,  a  Danish 
dramatist,  poet,  and  story-writer,  born  at 
Odensee,  island  of  Fiinen,  Ai^ril  2,  1805,  died  at 
Copenhagen,  Aug.  4,  1875.  His  father,  a  poor 
shoemaker,  died  while  the  son  was  a  child. 
In  1819  he  was  sent  by  his  mother  to  Copen- 
hagen in  order  to  study  music.  Here  he  un- 
derwent many  hai-dships,  but  in  the  end  found 
patrons  by  whom  he  was  warmly  befriended ; 
and  by  their  aid  he  was  enabled  to  pursue 
his  studies  at  the  Gymnasium.  He  entered 
the  University  in  1828 ;  but  before  that  time 
he  had  gained  considerable  reputation  by  his 
poems,  especially  by  one  entitled  The  Dijing 
Child.  This  was  followed,  in  1829,  by  a  satir- 
ical narrative  of  A  Journey  on  Foot  from  the 
Holm-canal  to  the  Eastern  Point  of  Amak. 
He  now  faii'ly  connnenced  his  literary  career, 
publishing  a  volume  of  Poems  in  1830,  and 
another  entitled  Fantasies  and  Sketches,  in 
1831.  All  of  his  numerous  works  have  been 
translated  into  German,  and  many  of  them 
into  English,  French,  and  other  languages. 
These  translations  have  given  him  a  far  more 
extended  reputation  than  could  have  been  at- 
tained by  their  issue  in  their  original  lan- 
guage, which  is  understood  by  comparatively 
few  readers.  The  German  edition  of  his  Com- 
plete Works  comprises  about  fifty  small  vol- 
umes. Many  of  these  books  were  the  result 
of  travels  in  various  parts  of  Europe.  In 
1844  he  received  a  pension  from  the  Danish 
Government ;  and  in  1875,  upon  the  70th  an- 
niversary of  his  birthday,  he  was  invested 
with  the  grand  cross  of  the  Order  of  Danne- 
brog.  Some  of  his  dramatic  pieces  met  with 
a  very  favorable  reception;  but  he  is  best 
known  by  his  tales  and  his  sketches  of  travel. 


HANS  CH1II8TIA1S'  ANDERSEX.         293 

Prominent  among  his  works  are  The  Impro- 
visatore,  which  describes  in  a  glowing  style 
his  impressions  of  Italy ;  O.T.,  a  novel  depict- 
ing lite  in  Northern  Europe ;  Only  a  Fiddler, 
a  half-autobiographic  story  of  homely  life ;  A 
Poet's  Bazaar,  a  collection  of  Miscellanies; 
and  several  series  of  Tales  for  Children.  He 
also  wrote  The  Story  of  my  Life,  bringing 
the  somewhat  imaginative  narrative  down  to 
1847.  This  work  was  continued  by  another 
hand  down  to  the  time  of  Andersen's  death. 

THE    DYING   CHILD. 

Mother,  I'm  tu-ed,  and  I  would  fain  be  sleeping. 

Let  me  repose  upon  thy  bosom  seek; 
But  promise  me  thou  wilt  leave  off  weeping; 

Because  thy  tears  tall  hot  upon  my  cheek. 
Here  it  is  cold;  the  tempest  lavetli  madly; 

But  in  my  dreams  all  is  so  wondrous  bright: 
I  see  the  angel-children  smiling  gladly 

When  from  my  weary  eyes  I  sliut  out  light. 

Mother,  One  stands  beside  me  now !  and  listen ! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  the  music's  sweet  accord? 
See  how  his  white  wings  beautifully  glisten! 

Surely  those  wings  were  given  by  our  Lord! 
Green,  gold,  and  red  are  floating  all  around  me: 

They  are  the  flowers  the  angel  scattereth. 
Shall  I  have  also  wings  whilst  life  has  bovuid  me? 

Or,  mother,  are  they  given  alone  in  death? 

Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  as  if  I  were  going? 

Why  dost  thou  press  thy  cheek  thus  unto  mine? 
Thy  cheek  is  hot,  and  yet  thy  tears  are  flowing: — 

I  will,  dear  mother,  will  be  always  thine ! 
Do  not  sigh  thus:  it  marreth  my  rejoicing; 

And  if  thou  weep,  then  I  must  weep  with  thee. — 
Oh,  I  am  tired;  my  weary  eyes  are  closing: — 

Look,  mother,  look!  the  angel  kisseth  me! 
— Traasl.  o/Maky  Howitt. 

JENNY  LIND   IN  COPENHAGEN. 

One  day,  in  1840,  in  the  hotel  in  which  I  lived 
in  Copenhagen,  I  saw  the  name  of  Jenny  Lind 
among  those  of  the  strangers  from   Sweden.      I 


294         HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 

Avas  aware  at  that  time  that  she  Avas  the  first 
singer  hi  Stockhohn.  I  liad  heen  that  same  year 
in  the  neigliboring  country,  and  had  there  met 
with  honor  iind  knidness.  I  thought  tlierefore, 
that  it  would  not  be  unbecoming  iu  me  to  pay  a 
visit  to  the  young  artist.  She  was  at  this  time 
entirely  unknown  out  of  Sweden,  so  that  I  was 
convinced  that,  even  in  Copenhagen,  her  name 
was  known  only  by  few.  She  received  me  very 
courteously,  but  yet  distantly,  almost  coldly.  She 
was,  as  slie  said,  on  a  journey  with  her  father  to 
South  Sweden,  and  was  come  over  to  Copenhagen 
for  a  few  days  in  order  that  she  might  see  this 
city.  We  again  parted  distantly,  and  I  had  the 
impression  of  a  very  ordinary  character,  which 
soon  passed  away  from  my  mind. 

In  the  Autumn  of  184:3  Jenny  Lind  came  again 
to  Copenhagen.  My  friend  Bournonville,  who 
had  married  a  Swedish  lady,  a  friend  of  Jenny 
Lind,  informed  me  of  her  arrival  here,  and  told 
me  that  slio  remembei-ed  me  very  kindly,  and  that 
now  she  had  read  my  writings.  He  entreated  me 
to  go  with  him  to  her,  and  to  employ  all  my  per- 
suasive art  to  induce  lier  to  take  a  few  parts  at 
the  Tlieatre  Royal;  I  should,  he  said,  be  then 
quite  enchanted  witli  what  I  should  hear.  I  was 
not  now  received  as  a  stranger;  she  cordially  ex- 
tended her  hand,  and  spoke  of  my  writings  and  of 
Fredrika  Bremer,  who  was  her  intimate  friend. 

"I  have  never  made  my  appearance,"  said  she, 
"out  of  SAveden;  everybody  in  my  native  land  is 
so  affectionate  and  kind  to  me,  and  if  I  made  my 
appearance  in  Copenhagen  and  should  be  hissed!— 
]  dare  not  venture  on  it!  " 

I  said  that  I,  it  was  true,  could  not  pass  judg- 
ment on  her  singing,  because  I  had  never  heard  it; 
neither  did  I  know  hoAV  she  acted;  but  neverthe- 
less I  was  convinced  that  such  Avas  the  disposi- 
tion at  this  moment  iu  Copenhagen,  that  only  a 
moderate  voice  and  some  knoAvledge  of  acting 
would  be  successful ;  I  believed  that  she  might 
safely  A-enture. 

Bournonville's  persuasion  obtained  for  the  Co- 
penhageners  the  greatest  enjoyment  Avhich  they 
ever  had.     Jenny  Lind  made  her  first  appearance 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN.         2U5 

among  tliem  as  Alice  in  Robert  le  Diahle.  It  was 
like  a  new  revelation  in  the  realms  of  Art;  the 
youthfully  fresh  voice  forced  itself  in  to  every 
heart;  here  reigned  Truth  and  Nature;  everything 
was  full  of  meaning  and  intelligence.  At  one 
concert  Jenny  Lind  sang  her  Swedish  songs,  there 
was  something  so  peculiar  in  this,  so  bewitching, 
people  thought  notliing  about  the  concert-room; 
the  popular  melodies  uttered  by  a  being  so  purely 
feminine,  and  bearing  the  universal  stamp  of  gen- 
ius, exercised  their  omnipotent  sway;  the  whole 
of  Copenhagen  was  in  raptures.  Jenny  Lind  was 
the  first  singer  to  whom  the  Danisli  students  gave 
a  serenade:  torches  blazed  around  the  hospitable 
villa  where  the  serenade  was  given.  She  ex- 
pressed her  thanlcs  by  again  singing  some  Swedish 
songs ;  and  I  then  saw  her  hasten  into  the  deepest 
corner,  and  weep  for  emotion. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  she,  "I  Avill  exert  myself!  I 
will  endeavor;  I  will  be  better  qualified  than  I 
am,  when  I  again  come  to  Copenhagen.'' 

On  the  stage  she  was  the  great  artiste,  who  rose 
above  all  those  around  her;  at  home,  in  her  own 
chamber,  a  sensitive  young  girl,  with  all  the  hu- 
mility and  piety  of  a  child.  Her  appearance  in 
Copenhagen  made  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  our 
Opera.  It  showed  me  Art  in  its  sanctity — I  had 
beheld  one  of  its  Vestals.  "  There  will  not  in  a 
whole  century,"  said  Mendelssohn,  speaking  to 
me  of  Jenny  Lind,  "  be  born  another  being  so 
gifted  as  she;"  and  his  words  expressed  my  full 
conviction.  One  feels,  as  she  makes  her  appear- 
ance on  the  stage,  that  she  is  a  pure  vessel  from 
which  a  holy  draught  will  be  presented  to  us. 

There  is  not  anything  which  can  lessen  the  im- 
pression which  Jenny  Lind's  greatness  on  the 
stage  makes,  except  her  own  personal  character 
at  home.  An  intelhgent  and  child-like  disposition 
exercises' here  its  astonishing  power;  she  is  happy, 
belonging,  as  it  were,  no  longer  to  the  world;  a 
peaceful,  quiet  home  is  the  object  other  thoughts; 
and  yet  she  loves  Art  with  her  whole  soul,  antl 
feels  her  vocation  in  it. 

A  noble  pious  disposition  like  hers  cannot  be 
spoiled  by  homage.     On  one  occasion  only  did  I 


29(3         HAN  IS  CHlilbTlAN  ANDERSEN. 

hear  her  express  her  joy  in  her  talent,  and  her 
self-consciousness.  It  was  during  her  last  resi- 
dence in  Copenhagen.  Almost  every  evening  she 
appeared  either  in  the  opera  or  at  concerts ;  every 
hour  was  in  requisition.  She  heard  of  a  Society 
the  object  of  which  was  to  assist  unfortunate 
children,  and  to  take  them  out  of  the  hands  of 
their  parents  by  whom  they  were  misused,  and 
compelled  either  to  beg  or  steal,  and  to  place  them 
in  other  and  better  circumstances.  Benevolent 
people  subscribed  annually  a  small  sum  each  for 
their  support;  nevertheless  the  means  for  this  ex- 
cellent purpose  were  small. 

"But  have  I  not  still  a  disengaged  evening?" 
gaid  she;  "let  me  give  a  night's  performance  for 
the  benefit  of  these  poor  children;  but  we  will 
have  double  prices! "' 

Such  a  performance  was  given,  and  returned 
large  proceeds.  When  she  was  informed  of  this, 
and  that  by  this  means  a  number  of  poor  cliildren 
would  be  benehted  for  several  years,  her  counte- 
nance brightened,  and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes. 
"It  is,  however,  beautiful,"'  said  she,  "that  I 
can  sing  so!" 

Through  Jenny  Lind  I  first  became  sensible  of 
the  holiness  there  is  in  Art:  through  her  I  learned 
that  one  must  forget  oneself  in  the  service  of  the 
Supreme.  No  books,  no  men,  have  had  a  better 
or  a  more  ennobling  influence  on  me  as  the  poet, 
than  Jenny  Lind.  I  have  made  the  happy  discov- 
ery by  experience,  that  inasmuch  as  Art  and  Life 
are  more  clearly  understood  by  me,  so  much  more 
sunshine  from  without  lias  streamed  into  my  soul. 
AVliat  blessings  have  not  compensated  me  for  the 
former  dark  days!  Repose  and  certainty  have 
forced  themselves  into  my  heart. — The  Story  of  my 
Life;  transl.  of  Mary  Howitt. 

Andersen's  Stories  for  Children  Jiumber 
several  scores  in  all,  wa-itten  at  various  inter- 
vals.    Of  these  we  extract  but  one : 

TlIK    Uai.Y    LITTLE    DUCK. 

It  was  so  delightful  in  the  country,  for  Summer 
was  in  the  height  of  its  splendor.     The  corn  was 


HANS  CHKISTIAN  ANDEliSEN.         297 

yellow,  the  oats  green,  tlic  hay,  heaped  into  cocks 
in  the  meadow  below,  looked  like  little  grass  hil- 
locks; and  the  stork  strutted  about  _or^  its  long, 
red  legs,  cliattering  Egyptian,  lor  that  was  the 
language  it  had  learned  Irom  its  mother. 

The  lields  and  meadows  were  surrounded  by 
more  or  less  thickly  wooded  forests,  which  also 
enclosed  deep  lakes,  the  smooth  waters  of  which 
were  sometimes  ruffled  by  a  gentle  breeze.  It 
was,  indeed,  delightiul  in  the  country. 

In  the  bright  sunshine  stood  an  old  mansion 
surrounded  by  a  moat  and  wall,  strong  and  proud 
almost  as  in  the  feudal  times.  From  the  wall  all 
down  the  way  to  the  water  grew  a  complete  for- 
est of  burdock  leaves,  which  were  so  high  that  a 
little  child  could  stand  upright  among  them.  It 
was  a  real  wilderness,  so  quiet  and  sombre,  and 
here  sat  a  Duck  upon  her  nest  hatching  a  quantity 
of  eggs;  but  she  was  almost  tired  of  her  tedious 
though  important  occupation,  foi-  it  lasted  so 
vevy  long,  and  she  seldom  had  any  visitors.  The 
other  ducks  preferred  swimming  about  on  the 
moat,  and  the  canals  that  ran  thi-ough  the  garden, 
to  visiting  her  in  her  solitude. 

At  length,  however,  there  was  a  crackling  in 
one  of  the  eggs,  then  a  second,  third,  fourth, 
fifth,  and  sixth.  "Piep!  piep!"  sounded  from 
here:  'Tiep!  piep!"  sounded  from  there,  at  least 
a  dozen  times.  There  Avas,  all  of  a  sudden,  life  in 
the  eggs,  and  the  little  half-naked  creatures,  their 
dwellings  having  .become  too  confined  for  thera, 
thrust  out  their  heads  as  out  of  a  window,  look- 
ing quite  confused. 

"Quick!  quick!"  their  mother  cried;  so  the 
little  ones  made  as  much  haste  as  they  possibly 
could.  They  stared  about  them,  as  if  examining 
the  green  leaves;  and  their  mother  let  them  look  as 
long  as  they  liked :  for  green  is  good  for  the  eyes. 

"How  large  the  world  is!"  they  said;  and  cer- 
tainly there  lay  before  thenl  a  much  more  exten- 
sive space  than  in  their  eggs. 

"Do  you   imagine   this  is   the  whole   world?" 
their  mother  answered.     "  Oh,  no;  it  stretches  far 
I  beyond  the  garden,  and  on  the  other  side  the  mea- 
dow, where  the  parson's  cows  arc  grazing,  though 


208         HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSElSr. 

I  have  never  been  there.  But  you  are  all  here,  I 
suppose?"  she  added  with  true  maternal  solici- 
tude ;  and  she  stood  up ;  whereby,  in  spite  of  all 
her  care,  there  was  a  great  overthrow  and  confu- 
sion among  the  little  ones.  "  No,  I  have  not  them 
all  yet,"  she  said,  sighing.  "The  largest  of  the 
■  eggs  lies  there  still.  How  much  longer  is  it  to 
last?  It  is  becoming  really  too  wearing."  She 
mustered,  however,  all  her  patience,  and  sat  down 
again. 

"How  are  you  getting  on?"  an  old  Duck  in- 
quired, coming  to  pay  her  friend  a  formal  visit. 

'■  With  one  of  the  eggs  tiiere  seems  to  be  no  end 
of  the  trouble,"  the  over-tired  mother  com- 
plained. "  The  shell  must  be  too  thick,  so  that  the 
poor  little  thing  cannot  break  through;  but  you 
must  see  tlie  others,  which  are  the  prettiest  little 
creatures  that  a  mother  could  ever  wish  for.  And 
what  an  extraordinary  resemblance  they  bear  to 
their  father,  who  is  certainly  the  handsomest 
Drake  in  the  whole  yard;  but  he  is  giddy,  and 
faithless  as,  indeed,  all  men  are!  He  has  not  vis- 
ited me  once  here  in  my  solitude." 

"Sliow  me  the  egg  which  will  not  burst,"  the 
old  Duck  said,  interrupting  her.  "  Take  my  word 
for  it,  it  is  a  Turkey's  egg.  I  was  once  played  the 
same  trick;  and  precious  trouble  I  had,  with  the 
little  ones;  for  they  were  afraid  of  the  water. 
How  I  coaxed,  scolded  and  fumed,  but  all  of  no 
use;  they  would  not  be  induced  to  go  in.  Now  let 
me  examine  the  obstinate  egg;  yes,  it  is  just  as  I 
expected;  it  is  a  Turkey's  egg.  Take  my  advice, 
leave  the  nest,  and  go  and  exercise  the  other  little 
ones  in  swimming;  for  you  are  not  bound  by  any 
duties  towards  this  cheat." 

"  I  would  ratlier  sit  a  little  longer  on  it,"  the 
other  said,  shaking  her  head.  "  I  have  already 
had  so  much  trouble  that  it  does  not  matter 
whether  I  am  kept  to  it  a  day  or  two  longer  or 
not." 

"Oh,  if  you  like  it,  I  have  no  objection,"  the 
old  one  answered,  and  with  a  stiff  courtesy  took 
her  leave,  philosophizing  on  her  way,  "  She'll 
have  trouble  enough  with  it!  " 

At  length  the  large  egg  burst.     "  Piep,  piep!" 


HANS  CIIIIISTIAN  ANDERSEN.         299 

cried  tlic  tardy  comer,  and  fell  head-foremost  out 
of  the  shell.  He  was  so  big  aud  ugly  that  his 
mother  scarcely  dared  look  at  him,  and  the  more 
she  did  so,  the  less  she  knew  what  to  say.  At 
last  she  exclaimed  involuntarily — 

"  That  is  certainly  the  most  frightfully  curious 
young  Drake!  Can  it  possibly  be  a  Turkey?  But 
wait,  we  will  soon  see,  for  into  the  wate]-  he  shall 
go.  I  will  push  him  in  myself,  without  further 
to-do;  and  then,  if  he  cannot  dive  and  swim  he 
may  drown,  and  serve  him  right  too." 

The  following  day  it  was  splendid  weather,  the 
sun  shining  brightly  upon  the  burdock-leaves, 
and  the  duck  mamma  with  her  whole  family 
waddled  down  to  the  moat.  "Splash!"  and  she 
was  in  the  water.  "Quick,  quick!"  she  cried, 
and  one  duckling  after  another  followed  her  exam- 
ple; not  one  would  remain  behind.  The  water 
closed  over  their  heads;  but  they  immediately 
came  to  the  top  again,  and  swam  most  beautifully. 
Their  legs  moved  of  their  own  accord,  and  even 
the  ugly  gray  late-comer  swam  merrily  with  tbem. 
"He  is  no  Turkey,"  the  old  Duck  said;  "only 
see  how  quickly  he  moves  his  legs,  and  how 
straight  he  holds  himself!  Yes,  he  is  my  own 
flesh  and  blood,  and,  after  all,  on  more  careful 
examination,  he  is  a  good-looking  fellow  enough. 
Now  follow  me  quickly,  and  I  will  introduce  you 
into  the  world,  and  present  you  in  the  poultry- 
yard.  But  mind  you  keep  close  to  me,  that  no 
one  may  tread  on  you;  aud,  of  all  things,  take  care 
of  the  Cat." 

They  reached  the  yard,  where  there  was  a 
dreadfully  noisy  commotion,  for  two  worthy  fam- 
ilies were  disputing  about  the  head  of  an  eel, 
which  the  Cat  took  from  both  of  them. 

"So  it  is  in  the  world,"  the  Mother-duck  said; 
and  her  mouth  watered,  as  she  too  would  gladly 
have  had  the  eel's  head,  for  which  she  had  a  par- 
ticular weakness. 

"Now  move  your  legs,"  she  said,  "and  bow 
prettily,  slightly  bending  your  necks  before  the 
old  Duck  you  see  there,  for  she  is  considered  the 
highest  of  all.  She  is  of  pure  Spanish  blood,  and 
therefore   she  is  so  solemn  and  proud.     Do  you 


300         HAXS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN". 

see  she  has  a  piece  of  red  cloth  round  her  left  leg, 
which  is  sometliing  extraordinarily  splendid,  and 
the  "greatest  mark  of  distinction  which  can  be 
conferred  upon  a  Duck?  It  means  that  she  shall 
be  known  to  all  beasts  and  men;  and  that  she  is  to 
enjoy  the  most  unusual  piece  of  good  fortune — to 
end  her  days  in  peace.  Make  haste,  my  children; 
but,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  turn  your  legs  in 
so;  for  a  well-bred  young  Duck  must  keep  its  legs 
far  apart,  just  like  papa  and  mamma.  Imitate 
me  in  all  tilings,  and  pay  attention  to  the  word  of 
command.  When  you  bow,  do  not  neglect  to 
bend  your  necks  gTacef  ully,  and  then  boldly  say 
'  Quack,  quack! ' — nothing  more.'' 

So  they  did,  but  the  other  Ducks  round  about 
looked  upon  them  with  contempt,  and  said  out 
quite  loud — 

"  Well,  well,  now  all  this  stupid  pack  is  to  be 
foisted  upon  us,  as  if  we  were  not  numerous 
enough  without  them.  Indeed,  we  do  not  require 
any  increase  of  that  sort.  And,  oh  dear!  just 
look  at  that  one  big  thing!  Such  a  deformity,  at 
least,  we  will  not  allow  amongst  us!" 

Thereupon  an  upstart  Drake  made  a  rush  at 
the  poor  green-gray  youngster,  and  bit  him  in  the 
neck. 

"  Leave  him  alone!"  cried  the  highly  incensed 
mother;  "  for  he  is  not  doing  anything  to  offend, 
you;  and  I  will  not  allow  him  to  be  ill-used." 

''That  may  be;  but  for  his  age  he  is  much  too 
big  and  peculiar,"  the  snappish  Drake  answered; 
"and  naturally,  therefore,  he  must  be  put  down." 

"They  arc  very  pretty  children  indeed,  that 
mamma  has  there,"  the  old  Duck  with  the  red 
cloth  round  her  leg  said;  "all  of  them,  with  the 
exception  of  one  only;  and  he  has  certainly  not 
succeeded." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  gracious  Madam!"  the 
mother  answered,  with  difficulty  swallowing  her 
mortification.  "lie  is  certainly  not  a  pattern  of 
beauty;  but  he  has  a  charming  disposition,  and 
swims  as  well  as  any  of  them;  indeed,  I  may  say  a 
little  l»etter;  and  I  am  of  opinion  that  he  will 
grow  up  handsome  enough,  when,  instead  of 
growing  taller,  he  spreads  oiit,  and  gains  round- 


HANS  CIIKISTIAX  ANDERSEN.         301 

ness  of  form.  lie  lay  too  lon<:j  in  the  egg,  and 
therefore  lias  not  his  pioper  shape;." 

Whilst  she  spoke  thus  in  the  youngster's  favor 
she  did  her  best  to  smooth  down  his  gray-<>-reen 
uniform  where  it  had  been  ruffled.  "  besides," 
the  good  mother  continued  warmly,  "  the  same 
fulness  and  elegance  of  form  is  not  expected  from 
a  Drake  as  from  a  Duck.  I  have  an  idea  that  he 
will  make  his  way." 

"The  other  little  ones  are  charming,"  the  old 
Spanish  Duck  repeated.  "  Now.  make  yourselves 
at  home,  and  if  you  should  happen  to  find  an  eel's 
head  you  may  bring  it  to  me  without  hesitation. 
You  understand  me!" 

And  now  they  were  at  home. 

But  the  poor  ugly  green-gray  youngster,  who 
had  come  last  out  of  the  egg,  was  bitten,  jostled, 
and  made  game  of  by  the  Ducks  as  well  as  the 
Chickens.  "He  is  much  too  big!"  they  all  said, 
with  one  accord.  And  the  stuck-up  Turkey,  be- 
cause he  was  born  with  spurs,  fancied  himself 
almost  an  emjjeror,  gave  himself  airs,  and  strutted 
about  like  a  ship  in  full  sail,  whilst  his  fiery  head 
grew  redder  and  redder.  The  poor  persecuted 
young  thing  neither  knew  where  to  stand  nor 
where  to  go  to,  and  his  heart  was  saddened  by  all 
tliat  he  had  to  suffer  on  account  of  his  ugliness. 

Thus  it  was  the  first  day ;  and  day  after  day  it 
only  grew  worse.  The  ugly  green-gray  youngster 
was  worried  and  hunted  by  all;  even  his  own 
brothers  and  sisters  were  against  him,  and  were 
constantly  saying,  "If  the  Cat  would  but  take 
you,  you  horror!"  His  mother,  weighed  down  by 
sorrow,  sighed,  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  never  borne 
you,  or  were  you  but  far  away  from  here!"  The 
Ducks  bit  him,  the  Chickens  pecked  him,  and  the 
girl  that  brought  them  their  food  kicked  him. 

Driven  by  fear  and  despair  he  now  ran  and  flew 
as  far  as  his  tired  legs  and  weak  wings  would 
carry  him;  till,  with  a  great  effort,  he  got  over 
the  hedge,  which,  no  doubt,  was  not  very  low. 
The  little  singing-birds  in  the  bushes  flew  up  in  a 
fright,  and  the  young  fugitive  thought,  "  That  is 
because  I  am  so  ugly." 

He,  however,  hurried  forward,  led  by  instinct, 
21 


802         HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 

towards  an  unknown  t^oal.  This  was  a  swamp, 
suiiounded  V.y  wood,  and  was  tlie  dwelling-place 
of  slioals  of  AYild  Bucks.  Sad  and  tired  to  death, 
he  remained  here  the  whole  night,  almost  in  a 
state  of  unconsciousness,  whilst  the  full  moon 
above  bore  such  a  friendly  countenance,  as  if 
laughing  at  the  foolish  Frogs,  which  kept  jumping 
from  the  water  on  to  the  grass,  and  back  again  to 
the  water,  as  if  imitating  the  dances  of  merry 
elves. 

Early  the  next  morning,  aroused  by  the  first 
glimmer  of  the  sun,  the  Yrild  Ducks  rose  from 
their  watery  beds  to  take  a  turn  in  the  warm 
Summer  air,  when  with  surprise  they  saw  the 
stranger. 

"  What  a  funny  guy  is  this!"  they  exclaimed. 
"Where  can  he  have  come  from  ?  "  they  inquired 
of  each  other;  whilst  the  stranger,  with  all  possi- 
ble politeness,  turned  from  side  to  side,  first  bow- 
ing to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left,  as  no  ballet- 
mistress,  much  less  a  ballet-master,  could  do. 

"  You  are  right  down  ugly,"  the  Wild  Ducks 
said;  "  but  that  does  not  make  much  difference  to 
us,  as  long  as  you  do  not  marry  into  our  family." 

The  poor  outcast  thought  of  nothing  less  than 
marrying.  All  he  wished  for  was  to  remain  undis- 
turbed among  the  rushes,  and  drink  a  little  of  the 
water  of  the  swamp.  Here  he  lay  two  whole 
days,  when  two  Wild  Geese  arrived — or  rather 
Goslings — for  they  had  not  long  come  out  of  the 
egg,  and  therefore  were  they  so  merry. 

''  Well  met,  comrade! "  one  of  them  said;  "  you 
are  so  ugly  that  I  like  you.  Come  with  us,  for 
close  by  is  another  swamp,  where  there  are  some 
wonderfully  beautiful  Geese,  the  sweetest  of 
young  damsels,  who  did  not  get  married  last  au- 
tumn. You  are  just  the  fellow  to  make  your 
fortune  with  them,  you  are  so  exemplarily  ugly." 

"  Bang,  bang!  "  it  sounded  at  that  very  moment, 
and  the  two  wild  Goslings  fell  down  dead,  the 
water  being  discolored  with  their  blood.  "  Bang, 
bang!"  it  went  again;  and  a  quantity  of  Geese 
flew  up  from  the  rushes.  There  was  more  firing; 
for  the  sportsmen  lay  all  around  the  marsh,  some 
of  them  sitting  even  in  the  branches  of  the  trees 


HANS  CHEISTIAN  ANDERSEN.         303 

that  overhung  the  mass  of  rushes.  The  bhic 
smoke  from  the  powder  rose  Hke  clouds  amongst 
the  dark  foliage,  and  "splash  "  the  dogs  sprang 
into  the  watei-,  little  heeding  the  fresh  breeze 
which  whistled  among  the  waving  reeds. 

A  nice  fright  the  poor  greeu-gray  had,  and  he 
was  about  to  hide  his  head  under  one  of  his  wings, 
that,  at  least,  he  might  see  no  more  of  the  horrors, 
when,  close  by  him  appeared  an  enormous  Dog, 
its  tongue  hanging  far  out  of  its  throat,  and  blood- 
thirsty rage  sparkling  in  its  eyes.  Witli  wide  open 
jaws,  showing  two  formidable  rows  of  murderous 
teeth,  the  water-spaniel  advanced  towards  the 
poor  bird,  that  now  gave  itself  up  as  utterly  lost; 
but,  generously  disdaining  to  seize  upon  its  easy 
prey,  the  noble  creature  went  on: — 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  the  poor  outcast  said. 
"  I  am  so  ugly  that  the  Dog  does  not  like  to  touch 
me;  "  and  he  lay  perfectly  quiet,  whilst  the  shot 
whizzed  over  his  head  amongst  the  rushes. 

Not  till  late  in  the  afternoon  did  the  firing 
cease;  but  even  then  the  poor  youngster,  whose 
life  had  been  saved  as  if  by  a  miracle,  did  not 
venture  to  move.  He  waited  several  hours  before 
he  drew  his  head  from  under  his  wing,  and  cau- 
tiously looked  about  him;  but  then  he  hastened, 
with  all  possible  speed  to  get  away  from  the  scene 
of  horror.  As  before  he  had  flown  from  the 
poultry-yard,  so  now,  but  with  redoubled  exer- 
tion, he  fled,  he  knew  not  whithei-.  A  boisterous 
wind,  which  followed  upon  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
Avas  ungracious  enough  to  have  no  consideration 
for  the  scantily  covered  traveller,  and  considera- 
bly impeded  his  progress,  exhausting  his  strength. 

Late  in  the  evening  our  fugitive  reached  a  mis- 
erable cottage,  which  was  in  such  a  wretched 
state  that  it  did  not  know  on  which  side  to  fall; 
and  on  that  account  it  remained  standing  for  the 
time  being.  The  wind  blew  around  him,  and 
shook  the  poor  bird  so  violently  that  he  had  to 
seat  himself  upon  his  tail  to  be  able  to  offer  the 
necessary  resistance.  He  then,  with  no  small 
delight  discovered  that  the  rickety  door  of  *lic 
cottage,  which,  though  it  did  not  promise  much 
comfort,   yet  offered   a  shelter  against  the  now 


304         HAJ^S  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 

doubly  raging  storm,  had  broken  loose  from  the 
lower  hinge,  and  that  there  was  a  slanting  open- 
ing, through  which  he  could  slip  into  the  room; 
and  this  he  did  without  loss  of  time. 

Here  lived  an  old  Woman  with  her  Tom-cat  and 
her  Hen. 

The  Cat  was  a  perfect  master  in  purring  and  in 
washing;  and  he  could  so  turn  head-over-heels, 
that  no  one  in  the  neighborhood  could  equal  him ; 
and  one  only  needed  to  rub  his  hair  repeatedly 
the  contrary  way  to  bring  bright  sparks  from  his 
back.  The  old  Woman  called  him  her  little  son. 
The  Hen  for  her  part,  had  very  thin,  short  legs, 
on  which  account  she  was  called  "  Cluck-small- 
leg."  She  luost  industriously  laid  the  very  best 
eggs,  and  her  mistress  loved  her  as  if  she  were 
her  own  child.  Peace,  concord,  and  hapisiness 
evidently  reigned  in  tliis  miserable  hut,  as  they 
do  in  many  others  of  a  like  sort. 

In  the  morning  the  strange  unbidden  guest  was 
immediately  discovered,  when  the  Cat  began  to 
purr,  and  the  Hen  to  cluck. 

•■  What  is  this  ?  "  the  old  AVoman  said,  and  be- 
gan a  close  examination;  but,  as  she  could  not  see 
well,  she  took  the  young  meagre  bird  for  a  fat 
Duck,  which  had  got  into  her  room  by  mistake. 

"Here  is  an  unusual  piece  of  good  fortune !  "  she 
exclaimed  in  joyous  surprise.  "  Now  I  shall  have 
duck's  eggs — that  is,  if  the  stupid  thing  should 
not  at  last  prove  to  be  a  Drake,"  she  added, 
thoughtfully.     "  We  will  give  it  a  trial." 

So  the  green-gray  youngster  remained  there 
three  weeks  on  trial;  but  no  egg  made  its  appear- 
ance. Now  the  Cat  was  master  in  the  house,  and 
the  Hen  mistress,  and  they  used  to  say  "  we  and 
the  world;"  for  they  thought  that  they  consti- 
tuted half,  and  by  far  the  better  half  of  the  world. 
It  appeared  to  the  young  stranger  that  others 
might  have  another  opinion;  which  the  Hen  would 
by  no  means  allow. 

"  Can  you  lay  eggs  ?  "  she  asked. 

"No." 

"  Then  please  to  hold  your  tongue." 

And  the  Cat  asked,  "  Can  you  purr,  or  arch  your 
back  ?  " 


HANS  CHEISTIAN  ANDERSEN".         305 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  have  no  right  to  offer  an  opinion 
wlien  sensible  people  are  talking." 

And  the  poor  ugly  outcast  sat  in  the  corner, 
quite  melancholy,  in  vain  fighting  against  the  low 
spirits  which  his  self-satisfied  companions  cer- 
tainly did  not  share.  Involuntarily  he  thought 
of  the  fresh  air  and  the  bright  sunshine  out  of 
doors,  and  felt  himself  agitated  by  so  violent 
a  desire  once  more  to  be  swimming  on  the  clear 
v/ater,  and  to  sport  about  in  the  liquid  element, 
that  he  could  not  resist,  one  morning,  after  a 
sleepless  night,  opening  his  heart  to  the  Hen. 

"  "What  mad  fancies  are  turning  that  poor  shal- 
low brain  of  yours  again?"  the  Hen  cried,  almost 
in  a  rage,  in  spite  of  her  natural  quiet  indif- 
ference. "  You  have  nothing  to  do ;  and  it  is  sheer 
idleness  that  torments  you,  and  puts  such  foolish 
fancies  into  your  head.  Lay  eggs,  or  purr,  and 
you  will  be  all  right." 

"  But  it  is  so  pleasant  to  swim,"  the  poor  child 
replied;  "  so  delightful  to  dive  to  the  bottom,  and 
look  up  at  the  moon  through  the  clear  water." 

"Yes,  that  must  be  a  great  treat,"  the  Heu 
said  contemptuously.  "  You  must  have  gone 
stark,  staring  mad.  Ask  the  Cat — and  I  know  no 
one  more  sensible — whether  he  likes  swimming 
about  in  the  water,  and  diving  to  the  bottom. 
I  will  not  speak  of  Myself  but  just  ask  our 
Mistress;  and  there  is  no  one  wiser  than  she  in 
the  whole  world.  Do  you  think  she  has  a  fancy 
for  diving  and  swimming?  " 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,"  the  poor  Duck- 
ling sigh(5d. 

"  And  if  we  do  not  understand  you,  pray,  who 
can,  you  conceited  impertinent  creature?"  the 
Hen  replied  warmly.  ''  You  will  not,  surely,  set 
yourself  up  as  cleverer  than  the  Cat  and  our 
Mistress,  not  to  mention  Myself.  Pray  think  a 
little  less  of  yourself,  and  thank  your  stars  for  all 
the  kindness  that  has  been  shown  you.  Have  you 
not  got  into  a  warm  room  here,  and  amongst  com- 
pany from  whom  you  may  learn  some  good?  But 
you  are  a  shallow  prattler,  and  a  long-necked 
dreamer,  whose  society  is  anything  but  amusing. 


30G         HAJSTS  CHRISTIAN  AKDERSEN. 

You  may  believe  mc,  for  I  mean  really  well  with 
you,  and  therefore  tell  you  tilings  you  do  not  like 
to  hear,  wliicli  is  a  proof  I  am  your  true  friend. 
No,  of  ail  things,  mind  that  you  lay  eggs,  and 
learn  how  to  purr." 

"  I  think  I  shall  wander  out  into  the  world," 
the  young  Duck  said,  mustering  up  courage. 

"Do  so,  by  all  means,"  the  Hen  answered  with 
contempt.  "One  comfort;  we  shall  lose  nothing 
by  your  absence." 

And  now  the  green-gray  youngster,  without 
many  parting  civilities,  began  his  wanderings 
again,  leaving  tiie  inhospitable  hut  without  re- 
gret; and  he  hurried  towards  the  so  much  longed- 
for  water.  He  swam  about  joyously,  and  boldly 
dived  down  right  to  the  bottom,  from  whence  he 
saw  the  pale  moon  like  a  rolling  ball;  but  at 
length  the  loneliness  and  deathlike  silence  be- 
came oppressive,  and  when  another  creature  did 
appear,  it  was  sure  to  be  with  the  same  greeting 
as  of  old,  namely,  " Oh,  how  frightful  you  are! " 

It  was  now  late  in  the  autumn,  with  frequent 
storms  of  snow  and  hail,  and  the  brown  and 
yellow  leaves  of  the  forest  danced  about,  whipped 
by  the  wind,  whilst  all  above  was  a  cold  leaden 
color.  The  Crows  sat  in  the  hedge,  and  cried 
"Caw!  caw!"  vdtli  sheer  cold.  It  makes  one 
shiver  to  tliink  of  it.  The  poor  outcast  was  any- 
thing but  happy. 

One  frosty  evening,  when  the  sun  was  setting 
like  a  fiery  wheel  in  the  gigantic  triumphal  car  of 
the  creation,  a  number  of  magnificent  large  birds 
swept  past,  and  the  ugly  green-gray  youngster 
thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  l)eautiful, 
and  at  the  same  time  imposing.  Their  spotless 
plumage  slione  like  driven  snow,  and  they  uttered 
a  cry,  half-singing,  half-whistling,  as  they  rose 
higher  and  higher  in  their  flight  towards  more 
extensive  lakes.  A  strange  sensation  came  over 
the  poor  young  Duck,  and  he  turned  round  and 
round  like  a  top,  and  stre telling  out  his  neck 
after  the  departing  birds,  gave  a  cry,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  so  loud  and  shrill  that  he  was 
fi'ightened  at  it  himself. 

When  they  quite  disappeared  from  his  sight,  he 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDEliSEN.         307 

suddenly  dived  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  water, 
and  when  he  rose  again,  it  was  as  if  beside  him- 
self. From  that  moment  never  could  he  forget 
those  beautiful,  happy  birds.  He  did  not  know 
that  they  were  called  Swans,  nor  where  they  were 
Hying  to;  but  he  loved  them  as  he  had  never  loved 
anything  before.  He  did  not  envy  them  in  the 
least;  for  how  did  it  enter  his  head  to  wish  him- 
self so  splendid  and  beautiful?  He  would  have 
been  contented  to  live  among  the  stupid  Ducks,  if 
they  would  but  have  left  him  in  peace— a  neglected 
ugly  thing. 

The  Winter  grew  so  bitterly  cold  that  the  poor 
young  creature  had  to  swim  about  incessantly  to 
prevent  the  water  freezing  quite  over.  Night 
after  night  the  hole  became  less;  till  at  last, 
exhausted  by  constant  exertions,  he  got  frozen 
tight  into  the  ice. 

Early  in  the  morning  a  peasant  came  that  waj; 
and  seeing  the  poor  bird  in  so  wretched  a  plight, 
he  had  compassion  upon  it,  and  ventured  boldly 
upon  the  ice;  for  he  was  a  good  Christian,  and 
not  one  of  those  who  first  see  that  no  incon- 
venience will  attend  an  act  of  kindness.  Witli^his 
wooden  shoes  he  broke  the  ice,  extricated  the  to 
all  appearance  dead  bird,  and  carried  liim  home 
to  his  wife,  where,  in  a  warm  room,  the  green- 
gray  youngster  soon  recovered  animation  and 
strength. 

The  children  wished  to  play  with  him ;  but  the 
young  Drake  thought  they  were  bent  on  ill-using 
him; "so  in  liis  fright  he  flew  into  an  earthenware 
milk-pan,  wliich  he  turned  over,  and  the  milk  ran 
about  the  floor.  The  woman  uttered  a  loud  cry, 
and  raised  her  hands  in  consternation,  which 
tlioroughly  bewildered  the  poor  bird,  and  he  flow 
into  the  freshly-made  buttei;,  and  then  into  the 
.  Hour-tub,  and  out  again.  Oh,  what  a  flgurc  he 
was  now!  Bewailing  her  losses,  the  woman  pur- 
sued him  with  the  tongs,  and  the  children,  laugh- 
ing and  shouting,  rolled  oyer  each  other,  as  they 
tried  to  catch  him. 

Fortunately  for  our  youngster,  who  was  now  no 
longer  green-gray,  but  of  a  delicate  paste-color, 
the'^door  was  open;  and,  taking  advantage  of  the 


303         HANS  CHKiyTIAN  ANDEKSEN. 

general  contusion,  he  rushed  out  into  the  open 
air,  and  with  difficulty  fluttered  into  some  bushes, 
not  far  off,  where  he  sank  down  exhausted. 

But  it  would  be  too  painful  to  follow  the  poor 
outcast  through  all  his  misfoitunes,  and  to  Avit- 
ness  the  misery  and  privation  he  suffered  during 
that  severe  Winter.  We  will  therefore  only  say 
that  he  lay  in  a  dreamy  state  amongst  the  rushes 
in  the  marsh,  when  the  sun  again  began  to  shine 
warmly  upon  the  earth,  and  the  larks  began  to 
sing;  for  it  was  now  early  Spring. 

When  the  young  Drake  spread  out  his  wings, 
which  had  grown  much  stronger,  and  with  ease 
they  carried  him  away,  so  tliat,  almost  before  he 
knew  it,  lie  found  himself  in  a  large  garden,  where 
the  fruit-trees  were  in  blossom,  and  where  the 
syriugas  sent  forth  their  fragrance,  and  their 
long  green  branches  hung  down  in  the  meandering 
rivulets.  It  was  so  beautiful:  the  freshness  of 
Spring  was  there;  and  just  then  three  beautiful 
white  Swans  came  out  of  the  thicket.  They  rustled 
tlieir  feathers,  and  swam  on  the  water  so  lightly; 
oh,  so  very  lightly!  The  Duckling  knew  the  su- 
perb creatures,  and  was  seized  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  sadness. 

"  To  them  will  I  fly,"  said  he,  "  to  the  royal 
birds.  They  will  kill  me,  because  I,  poor  ugly 
creature,  dare  to  approach  them!  But  no  matter; 
it  is  better  to  be  killed  by  them  than  be  bitten  by 
the  Ducks,  pecked  by  the  Hens,  kicked  by  the 
girl  that  feeds  the  Chickens,  and  in  Winter  to 
suffer  so  much." 

And  he  flew  into  the  water,  and  swam  towards 
the  magniflcent  birds.  They  looked  at  him,  and, 
with  rustling  plume,  sailed  towards  him.  "  Kill 
me,"  said  the  poor  creature,  and  bowed  down  his 
head  to  the  water,  and  awaited  death. 

But  what  did  he  .see  in  the  water!  It  saw  its 
own  likeness ;  but  no  longer  that  of  an  awkward 
grayish  bird,  ugly  and  displeasing.  It  was  the 
figure  of  a  Swan!  It  is  of  no  consequence  the  be- 
ing born  in  a  farm-yard,  if  it  is  only  in  a  Swan's 
egg. 

The  good  creature  felt  quite  elevated  by  all  the 
cares  and  disappointments  he  had  endured.     Now 


LANCELOT  ANDREWS.  30!) 

he  knew  how  to  prize  the  splendor  whicli  shone 
around  him.  And  the  large  fcjwaus  swtuii  beside 
him,  and  caressed  him  with  their  bills.  There 
were  some  little  children  runnino'  about  in  the 
garden;  they  threw  bread  into  the  water,  and  the 
youngest  cried  out — 

"  There  is  a  new  one!"  and  the  other  children 
shouted  too,  "Yes,  a  new  one  has  come!" — and 
they  clapped  their  hands,  and  danced,  and  ran  to 
tell  their  lather  and  mother.  And  they  threw 
bread  and  cake  into  the  water;  and  every  one  said 
"  The  new  one  is  the  best!  so  young  and  so  beau- 
tiful!" And  the  old  Swans  bowed  their  heads 
before  him. 

Then  the  young  8wan  felt  quite  ashamed,  and 
hid  his  head  under  his  wing.  He  knew  not  what 
to  do.  He  was  too  happy,  but  yet  not  proud;  for 
a  good  heart  is  never  proud.  He  remembered  how 
he  had  been  persecuted  and  derided;  and  now  he 
heard  all  people  say  that  he  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  all  beautiful  birds.  And  the  syringas  bent 
down  their  branches  to  him  in  the  water;  and  the 
sun  shone  so  lovely  and  so  warm.  Then  he  shook 
his  plumes;  the  slender  neck  was  lifted  up;  and 
from  his  very  heart  he  cried,  rejoicingly — 

"  Never  dreamed  I  of  such  happiness  as  this,  in 
the  days  when  I  was  the  Little  Ugly  Duck!" 
— Transl.  of  Aylked  Wehnaet. 

ANDREWS,  Lancelot,  an  English  bishop, 
born  in  London,  in  1555,  died  March  27,  1625. 
He  was  educated  at  various  schools,  finally 
at  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge,  of  whicJi  he 
was  chosen  a  Fellow  in  1576.  He  took  orders, 
and  soon  attracted  the  notice  of  Sir  Francis 
Walsingham,  Queen  Elizabeth's  Secretary  of 
State,  fi'om  whom  he  received  several  prefer- 
ments ;  and  after  the  death  of  the  Queen  he 
came  high  into  the  favor  of  James  I. ,  her  suc- 
cessor. He  was  one  of  the  body  of  transla- 
tors of  the  Bible,  the  fii'st  twelve  books  of  the 
Old  Testament  being  under  his  special  charge. 
In  1605  he  was  consecrated  Bishop  of  Chi- 
chester, in  1600  was  transferred  to  the  see  of 


310  LANCELOT  ANDKEWS. 

Ely,  and  in  1625  to  that  of  Winchester.  With 
perhaps  the  exception  of  Ussher,  he  was  es- 
teemed the  most  learned  English  theologian  of 
his  time ;  and  he  was  in  his  day  accounted 
the  most  eloquent  of  the  Anglican  preachers, 
being  styled  Stella  Pnedicanti am,  "  The  Star 
of  Preachers."  His  works  consist  of  two 
treatises  in  reply  to  Cardinal  Bellarmin,  m 
which  he  advocates  the  right  of  princes  over 
ecclesiastical  councils;  an  esteemed  Manual 
of  Devotion,  and  numerous  Sermons  and  other 
Discourses.  Six  years  after  his  death  a  collec- 
tion of  ninety-six  of  his  sermons  was  published 
"by  His  Majesty's  special  commandment." 
Bishop  Hacket,  in  his  Funeral  Discourse,  thus 
eulogizes  Bishop  Andrews:  "He  was  the 
most  apostolical  and  primitive-like  divine  in 
my  opinion,  that  ever  wore  a  rochet  in  his 
age;  of  a  most  venerable  gravity,  and  yet 
most  sweet  in  all  commerce;  the  most  devout 
that  ever  I  saw  when  he  appeared  before  God ; 
of  such  a  gi-owth  in  all  kinds  of  learning, 
that  very  able  clerks  were  of  low  stature  to 
him;  in  the  pulpit  a  Hojner  among  preach- 
ers." Doubtless  his  manner  had  much  to  do 
with  his  repute  as  a  preacher.  To  men  of 
after  ages,  who  only  read  his  sermons,  his 
style  appears  affected,  pedantic  and  strained. 

UPOX  AXGELS    AXD   MEX. 

1.  What  are  angels  ?  surely  they  are  spirits — 
immortal  spirits.  For  tlieir  nature  or  suijstance, 
spirits;  for  their  quality  or  property,  glorious; 
for  their  place  or  abode,  heavenly;  for  their  dur- 
ance or  continuance,  immortal. — And  what  is  the 
seed  of  Abraham,  but  as  Abraham  himself  ?  And 
what  is  Abraliam  ?  Let  him  answer  himself:  I 
am  but  dust  and  ashes.  What  is  the  seed  of 
Abraham  ?  Let  one  answer  in  the  persons  of  all 
the  rest;  Dlcens putvedini,  etc.: — Saying  to  rotten- 
ness, thou  art  my  mother,  and  to  the  worms,  ye 
jvrc  my  brethren.     They  are  spirits;  now  Avliat  arc 


REINIER  ANSLO.  311 

we,  what  is  the  seed  of  Abrnliam  ?  Flosli.  And 
what  is  the  very  harvest  of  the  seed  of  flesli  ? 
what  but  corruption,  and  rottenness,  and  worms? 
There  is  the  substance  of  our  bodies. — 2.  They  are 
glorious  spirits ;  we  vile  bodies  (bear  with  it,  it  is 
the  Holy  Ghost's  own  term:  Who  shall  change 
our  vile  bodies).  And  not  only  base  and  vile,  but 
filthy  and  unclean,  ex  Immundo  concepUun  niundi, 
conceived  of  unclean  seed,  there  is  the  metal. 
And  the  mould  is  no  better,  the  womb  wherein 
we  wei'e  conceiyed,  vile,  base,  filthy,  unclean. 
There  is  our  quality. — They  are  heavenly  spirits, 
angels  of  heaven ;  that  is,  their  place  of  abode  is 
in  heaven,  ours  is  here  below  in  the  dust;  inter 
pulice,  et  cidices,  tineas,  arances,  et  vermes ;  our 
place  is  here  among  fleas  and  flies,  moths,  and 
spiders,  and  crawling  worms.  There  is  our  place 
of  dwelling. — 1.  They  are  immortal  spirits,  that  is 
their  durance.  Our  time  is  proclaimed  in  the 
prophet.  Flesh,  all  flesh  is  grass,  and  the  glory  of 
it  as  the  flowers  of  the  field  (from  April  to  June). 
The  scythe  comcth,  nay  the  wind  but  bloweth, 
and  we  are  gone,  withering  sooner  than  the  grass, 
which  is  short;  nay,  fading  sc^oner  than  the  flower 
of  the  grass,  which  is  mucii  shorter;  nay,  saith 
Job,  rubbed  in  pieces  more  easily  than  any  moth. 
Tlius  we  are  to  them  if  you  lay  us  together; 
and  if  you  lay  us  upon  the  balance,  w^e  are  alto- 
gether lighter  than  vanity  itself;  there  is  our 
weight.  And  if  you  would  value  us,  man  is  but  a 
thing  of  naught:  there  is  our  worth.  Hoc  is  onmis 
liomo  ;  this  is  Abraham,  and  this  is  Abraham's 
seed:  and  who  would  stand  to  compare  these 
with  angels  ?  Verily,  there  is  no  comparison;  they 
are  incomparably  far  better  than  the  best  of  us. 
—  Sermonn. 

ANSLO,  Eeinier,  a  Dutch  poet,  born  in 
Amsterdam  in  1622,  died  at  Perugia,  Italy, 
in  1699.  He  travelled  much,  especially  in 
Italy,  where  he  was  converted  to  the  Catholic 
faith.  His  i)rincipal  works  are  The  Eve  of 
St.  Bartholomew,  and  The  Plague  of  Naples. 


312  CHRISTOPHER  AJfSTEY. 

THE   PLAGUE   OF   NAPLES. 

Where  shall  we  hide  us — he  pursuiiig  ? 
"What  darksome  cave,  what  gloomy  ruin  ? 
It  matters  not :  distress  and  fear 
Are  everywhere. 

AVho  now  can  shield  us  from  the  fury 
That  seems  uj^ou  our  steps  to  hurry  ? 
Our  brow  exudes  a  frozen  sweat 
On  hearing  it. 

List  to  that  scream!  that  broken  crying: 
Could  not  the  death-gasp  husfi  that  sighing  ? 
Ai'e  these  the  fruits  of  promised  peace  ? 
Oh,  wretchedness  ! 

E'en  as  a  careless  shepherd  sleeping, 
Forgetful  of  the  flocks  he's  keeping, 
Is  smitten  by  the  lightning's  breath: 
The  bolt  of  death: 

E'en  as  the  growing  mountain-current 
Pours  dowTQ  the  vale  its  giant  torrent, 
And  sweeps  the  thoughtless  flocks  avv-ay 
That  slumbering  lay: 

So  were  we  roused ;  so  woe  descended 
Before  the  bridal  feast  was  ended, 
And  Sleep  fell  hea^^:  followed  there 

By  blank  despair. 
— Transl.  of  Boavring. 

ANSTEY,  Christopher,  an  English  versi- 
fier, born  in  1724,  died  in  1805.  His  father 
was  rector  of  Brinkeley,  in  Cambridgeshire, 
and  had  also  a  considerable  landed  i^roperty, 
which  Avas  in  time  inherited  by  the  son.  He 
v\^as  educated  at  Eton,  from  which  school  he 
was  elected  to  Kings  College,  Cambridge ;  but 
in  consequence  of  some  quaiTel  Avith  the  au- 
thorities he  did  not  take  his  degree,  although 
he  stood  high  as  a  classical  scholar.  He  sub- 
sequently entered  the  army ;  then  married  an 
heiress,  through  the  influence  of  whose 
family  he  w^as  returned  to  Parliament.  His 
Avealth  and  personal  qualities  gained  him  a 
place  in  the  best    fashionable  and  literary 


CIIEISTOPIIER  ANSTEY.  313 

society  of  his  day.  He  was  a  frequent  vis- 
itor at  Bath — then  the  favorite  watering- 
place.  He  wrote,  during  his  long  and  pros- 
perous life,  many  "  Society  Poems ;"  of  which 
The  New  Bath  Guide,  and  The  Election  Ball 
are  now  worth  remembering.  The  New  Bath 
Guide,  published  in  1706,  was  among  the 
most  successful  poems  of  that  age.  Anstey 
received  £300  for  the  copyright,  and  he  gave 
the  money  to  the  hospital  at  Bath.  Dodsley, 
the  publisher,  declared  that  the  profits  on  the 
sale  were  greater  than  he  had  ever  gained|in 
the  same  period  by  any  other  book.  Anstey  "s 
Neiv  Bath  Guide  furnished  the  thought,  and 
indeed  not  a  little  of  the  actual  material, 
which  Smollett,  five  years  later,  wrought  up 
in  his  clever  story  of  Humphrey  Clinker. 
Anstey's  Election  Ball  has  quite  a  number  of 
clever  hits  which  may  be  appreciated  now — a 
century  or  more  after  they  were  written : 

THE   PUBLIC   BKEAKFAST. 

Now  my  lord  had  the  honor  of  coming  down  post, 

To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a  toast; 

In  hopes  he  her  Ladyship's  favor  might  win, 

By  inlaying  the  part  of  a  host  at  an  inn. 

I'm  sure  that  he's  a  person  of  great  resolution, 

Though  delicate  nerves,  and  a  weak  constitution, 

Eor  he  carried  us  to  a  place 'cross  the  i-iver, 

And  vowed  that  the  rooms  were  too  hot  for  his 

liver. 
He  said  it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  promote, 
If  we  all  for  Spring  Gardens  set  out  in  a  boat: 
I  never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain. 
Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 
For  sure  such  confusion  was  never  yet  known; 
Here  a  cap  and  a  hat,  there  a  cardinal  blown; 
While  his  Lordship,  embroidered  and  powdered 

all  o'er. 
Was  bowing,  and  handing  the  ladies  ashore.  .  .  . 

You've  read  all  their  names  in  the  news  I  sup- 
pose : 
But  for  fear  you  have  not,  take  the  list  as  it  goes. 


314  CHKI8TOPHER  ANSTEY. 

There  was  Lady  Gioasewrister, 

And  Madame  Yau-Twister, 

Her  Ladyship's  sister; 

Lord  Cram,  and  Lord  Vulture, 

Sir  Brandish  O'Cultur, 

Witli  Marslial  Carouzer, 

And  ohl  Lady  Touzer; 
And  tlie  great  Ilanoveriau  Barou  Panzmowzer; 
Besides  many  otliers  who  all  in  the  rain  went, 
On  purpose  to  honor  this  great  entertainment. 
The  company  made  a  most  brilliant  appearance 
And  ate  bread-and-butter  witii  great    persever- 
ance; ['em, 
And  the  cliocolate,  too,  that  my  Lord  set  before 
The  ladiep'  despatched  with  the  iitmost  decorum. 
Soft  musical  numbers  were  heard  all  around 
The  horns'  and  the  clarions'  echoing  sound.  ,  ,  . 
Oh,  had  1  a  voice  that  was  stronger  than  steel, 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I  feel. 
And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I  never  could  utter 
All  the  speeches  my  Lord  made  to  Lady  Bunbut- 

ter! 
So  polite  all  the  time  that  he  ne'er  touched  a  bit. 
While  she  ate  up  his  rolls  and  applauded  his  wit; 
For  they  tell  me  that  men  of  true  taste,  jvhen  they 

treat, 
Should  talk  a  great  deal,  but  they  never  should 

eat.  .  .  . 
So  when  we  had  vrasted  more  bread   at  a  break- 
fast 
Than  the  poor  of  our  parish  have  ate  for  this 

week  past, 
I  saw,  all  at  once,  a  prodigious  great  tlirong 
Come  bustling  and  rustling  and  jostling  along; 
For  his  Lordship  was  pleased  that  the  company 

now 
To  my  Lady  Bunbutter  should  curtsey  and  bow ; 
And  my  Lady  was  pleased  too,  and  seemed  vastly 

proud 
At  once  to  receive  all  the  thanks  of  a  crowd. 
And  wlien,  like  Chaldeans,  we  all  had  adored 
This  beautiful  image  set  up  by  my  Lord, 
Some  few  insignificant  folk  went  away, 
Just  to  follow  the  employments  and   calls  of  the 
dav.  .  .  . 


ANTHOLOGY.  B15 

Now  why  should  the  Muse— my  dear  mother— re- 
late 
The  misfortunes  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  Great  ? 
As  homeward  we  came — 'tis   with   sorrow   you'll 

hear 
What  a  dreadful  disaster  attended  the  Peer: 
For  whether  some  envious  god  had  decreed 
That  a  Naiad  should  long  to  euuohle  her  breed; 
Or  whether  his  Lordship  was  charmed  to  behold 
His  face  in  the  stream,  like  Narcissus  of  old; 
In  handing  old  Lady  Comefidget  and  daughter, 
This  obsequious  Lord  tumbled  into  the  watei-; 
But  a  Nymph  of  the  Flood  brought  him  safe    to 

the  boat; 
And  I  left  all  the  Ladies  a-cleaning  his  coat. 

ANTHOLOGY  (Gi'.  literally  "  Flower-Gath- 
erings "  ).  A  collection  of  small  poems,  form- 
ing, as  it  were,  a  kind  of  bouquet  or  garland. 
Such  collections  exist  in  many  languages; 
but  the  term  is  more  specifically  used  to  de- 
note the  famous  collection  of  the  minor  Greek 
poets  of  most  of  whom  only  a  few  fragments 
are  extant.  Not  a  few  of  these  consist  of  a 
single  couplet,  often  originally  an  inscription 
upon  some  monument ;  as  tli^at  composed  by 
Simonides  and  placed  by  Miltiades  upon  a 
statue  of  Pan  erected  on  the  battle-field  of 
Marathon : 

Me,  goat-foot  Pan  of  Arcady— the  Median's  fear— 
The  Athenians'  friend,  Miltiades,  placed  here. 

Still  more  famous  is  the  inscription,  also  by 
Simonides,  upon  a  monument  erected  over 
the  remains  of  those  Spartans  who  fell  at 
Thermopylae : 

Go,  stranger,  and  to  Lacediemon  tell 
That  here,  obedient  to  her  laws,  we  fell. 

Another,  also  atti-ibuted  to  Simonides,  com- 
memorates the  Corinthians  who  fell  at  the 
naval  battle  of  Salamis : 


316  ANTHOLOGY. 

Well-watered  Corinth  was  our  home  before; 
We  lie  on  Salamis's  Aiautian  shore. — 
The  ships  of  Tyre,  the  Peisian,  and  the  Mede 
We  routed;  and  thus  sacred  Greece  was  freed. 

N(jt  a  few  of  the  poems  in  the  Greek  An- 
thology are  votive  inscriptions  hung  above 
some  offering  to  the  gods  in  gratitude  for 
some  great  deHverance,  or  to  jjropitiate  their 
favor  in  the  future.  Thus  an  epigram,  by 
Lueian.  records  a  humble  thank-ottering  from 
one  who  had  been  saved  from  shipwreck ; 

To    (xlaucus,  Nereus,  Ino,   and  to   Melicerte,   as 

well 
To  Neptune,  and  the  mystic  powers  in  Samothrace 

that  dwell — 
Grateful  that,  from  the  sea  preserved,  he  now  on 

shore  can  live, 
Lucillus  cuts  and  gives  these  hairs: — 'tis  all  he  has 

to  give. 

Three  brothers — hunters  and  fishers—dedi- 
cate the  implements  of  their  craft  to  the  sil- 
van deity  Pan.  The  inscription  on  the  votive 
tablet  is  by  Leonidas,  though  the  general  idea 
is  expressed  by  other  poets,  with  more  or  less 
of  variation : 

Three  brothers  dedicate,  O  Pan,  to  thee 
Their  nets — the  various  emblems  of  their  toil; — 
Pigres,  who  brings  from  realms  of  air  his  spoil; 

Dames  from  woods,  and  Clitor  from  the  sea. 
So  ma:y  the  treasures  of  the  deep  be  given 
To  this;  to  those  the  spoils  of  earth  and  heaven. 

An  epigram,  ascribed  to  no  less  an  author 
than  Plato,  has  been  often  imitated.  It  pur- 
ports to  be  by  Lais  the  famous  courtesan,  at 
a  time  when  her  charms  had  begun  to  wane : 

I,  Lais,  who  smiled  at  Greece  with  scornful  pride, 
I.  at  whose  doors  a  swarm  of  lovers  sighed. 
This  glass  to  Venus  give: — That  which  I  shall  be 
I  ivoid'l  not — what  I  was  I  cannot — see. 


ANTHOLOGY.  317 

Lais  has  been  commemorated  in  a  stinging 
epitaph  by  iVntipater  of  Sidon : 

Lais,  who  walked  in  gold  and  purple  dyes, 
Here  on  her  sea-girt  Corinth  lowly  lies; 
The  pampered  friend  of  Eros,  whom  that  elf 
Nurtured  more  daintily  than  Venus' s  self. 
Brighter  this  human  goddess  than  the  stream, 
Which  in  Pirene  sheds  its  fulgent  gleam; 
And  wooers  more  she  had  who  sought  her  arms, 
Than  ever  siglicd  for  brilliant  Helen's  charms; 
And  many  revelled  in  those  graces— sold 
For  the  false  glare  of  all-subduing  gold. 
Even  in  her  ashes  live  the  rich  perfume 
Of  odors  ever  lloating  round  her  tomb: 
Steeped  are  her  hjcks  in  myrrh;  the  buxom  air 
Inhales  the  fragrance  of  her  essenced  hair; 
And  when  she  died,  Cythera  near  her  stood 
"With  gi-ief-soiled  cheeks,  and  Eros  sobbed  aloud. — 
Oh!  if  those  charms  so  many  had  not  bought, 
Greece  had  for  Lais  as  for  Helen  fought. 

Votive  offerings  were  frequent  upon  occa- 
sions of  approaching  nuptials ;  and  they  called 
forth  not  a  few  of  the  prettiest  effusions  of 
the  Greek  versifiers.  Here  is  one  by  an 
anonymous  poet : 

Timarete— her  wedding-day  now  near — 
To  Artemis  has  laid  these  offerings  here: 
Her  tambourine,  her  pleasant  ball;  the  net 
As  a  safe  guardian  o'er  her  tresses  set; 
Her  girlish  dolls,  in  mimic  robes  arrayed: 
Gifts  fltting  for  a  maid  to  give  a  maid. — 
Goddess,  thy  hands  upon  her  kindly  lay, 
And  keep  her  holy  in  thy  holy  way. 

Leonidas  of  Tarentum  has  left  numerous 
graceful  inscriptions  of  this  class.  As  this, 
v^rhich  tells  its  own  story,  and  is  addressed  to 
Rhea,  the  Mother  of  the  Gods : 

O  holy  Mother!  on  the  peak 
Of  Dindyma,  and  on  those  summits  bleak 

That  frown  on  Phrygia's  scorched  plain. 
Holding  thy  throne :  with  favoring  aspect  deign 
22 


318  ANTHOLOGY. 

To  smile  on  Aristodic;?, 

Sileue's  virgin  child,  tliat  she 
May  grow  iu  beautj',  and  her  charms  improve 
To  fulness,  and  invite  connubial  love. 
For  this  she  seeks  thy  porch,  with  tributes  rare, 
And  o'er  thine  altars  strews  her  votive  hair. 

And  this,  addressed  to  the  goddess  who 
presides  over  child-birth,  by  a  uiatroii  ^vho 
had  safely  given  birth  to  tv^ins : 

Here,  Ilethyia!  at  thy  noble  feet 

Ambrosia  lays  a  grateful  offering  meet — 

A  robe  and  head-dress,  favored  by  thy  jjowcr 

In  the  sore  travail  of  her  perilous  hour; 

And  in  due  season  strengthened  to  bring  forth 

A  double  offspring  at  a  happy  birth. 

Agathias  commemorates  a  trijile  oflEering 
devoted  by  a  happy  wife  and  mother  to  the 
three  goddesses  who  had  crowned  her  life 
with  gladness.  It  should  not  be  forgotten 
that  the  original  Greek  idea  of  Aphrodite  was 
wholly  devoid  of  that  grossness  which  came 
iu  time  to  be  the  prevailing  characteristic  of 
the  conception  of  the  Goddess  of  Love. 

To  Aphrodite  garlands,  braids  of  clustering  hair 

To  Pallas,  and  her  zone  to  Artemis, 
Callirhoe  gave:  Fit  tributes  offered  there. 
Whence  to  her  lot  had  fallen  a  triple  bliss. — 
A  loved  and  loving  suitor  she  had  wed, 
In  modest  purity  her  life  was  led 
And  a  male  race  of  children  blessed  her  bed. 

The  shorn-off  hair  was  a  frequent  and  nat- 
ural offering.  Youths  also  offered  the  first 
clippings  of  their  beards — the  first-fruits,  so 
to  speak,  and  tokens  of  adolescence.  Thus  an 
anonymous  epigram  says,  with  a  fine  moral 
added : 

Lycon,  the  rising  down  tliat  first  appeared 
To  Phosbus  gave — the  presage  of  a  beard; 
And  prayed  that  so  he  might  in  after  years 
On  liis  gray  locks — as  now — omi)loy  the  shears. 


ANTHOLOGY.  31* 

Grant  this  request,  and  on  liis  ngc  bestow 
The  honor  that  should  crown  a  head  of  snow. 

When  the  youth  laid  away  childish  things 
he  was  wont  to  make  an  offering  of  his  toys 
to  Hermes,  as  the  maiden  did  of  hers  to  Arte- 
mis. Leonidas  of  Tarentum  makes  mention 
of  this  custom : 

To  Hermes,  this  fair  liall  of  pleasant  sound, 
This  box-wood  rattle,  fraught  with  lively  noise, 

These  maddening    dice,   this  top,  well-whirling 
round, 
Philocles  here  hangs  up  his  boyhood  s  toyc. 

As  the  youth  dedicated  his  toys,  so  the 
worn-out  old  man  dedicated  the  implements 
of  his  craft  which  he  could  no  longer  use. 
Thus: 

Old  Cyniras  to  the  Nymphs  this  net.     No  more 
His  strength   can  stand    the   toils  that    once  it 

bore.  — 
Rejoice,  ye  fishes,  sporting  in  the  sea! 
From  danger  at  his  hands  you  now  are  free. 

An  epigram  by  Macedonius  describes  the 
offering  to  Poseidon,  by  an  old  sailor  of  the 
ship  in  which  he  had  long  voyaged  from  land 
to  land : 

King  of  the  sea,  and  Ruler  of  the  shore. 
This  ship,  ordained  to  touch  the  waves  no  more, 
I,  Crantas,  give  to  thee:— a  ship  long  driven 
In  sport  before  the  wandering  winds  of  heaven; 
In  which,  oft  sailing,  I  have  thought,  witli  dread, 
I  soon  might  reach  the  regions  of  the  dead. 
Renouncing  winds  and  waves,  and  hope  and  feai\ 
Now  on  dry  land  I  fix  my  footsteps  here. 

A  votive  inscription  by  Ga'tulicus,  tells  its 
own  story : 

Alcon  beheld  his  boy,  wliile  laid  at  rest, 
Close  in  a  deadly  serpent's  folds  comprest; 
He  bent  his  bow  with  hand  that  thrilled  with 

dread. 
But  did  not  miss  his  mark;  the  arrow  sped 


320  ANTHOLOGY. 

Right  tlirougli  the  monster's  jaws  with  prosper- 
ous aim — 

Near,  but  not  touching  the  dear  infant's  frame. 
His  quiver,  fraught  with  shafts  devised  to  kill, 
Hangs  on  this  oak,  released  from  working  ill — 
A  record  of  good  fortune  and  good  skill. 

A  traveller,  almost  perishing  with  thirst, 
was  guided  by  the  croaking  of  a  frog  to  a 
spring  of  Avater.  In  gratitude  for  this  relief 
he  dedicated  a  bronze  image  of  a  frog  to  the 
Nymphs  of  the  spring,  with  this  inscription 
by  Plato— not  the  philosopher— but  another 
poet  of  the  same  name : 

The  servant  of  the  Nymphs,  who  loves  the  show- 
ers. 
The  minstrel  moist,  who  lurks  in  watery  bowers — 
A  Frog  in  bronze,  a  wayfarer  here  laid. 
Whose  burning  thirst  was  cjuenched  by  welcome 

aid. 
By  the  hoarse  monitor's  amphiltious  tone 
A  hidden  spring  was  to  the  wanderer  shown; 
He  followed,  nor  forsook  the  guiding  sound 
Till  the  much  wished-for  draught    he  grateful 
found. 

Leonidas  of  Tai'entum  gracefully  commem- 
orates an  offering  made  to  the  river-nymphs 
by  a  traveller  who  had  quenched  his  thirst  at 
their  waters : 

Cool  stream,   where  waters  from  the  cleft  rock 

start — 
Forms,  too,  of  Naiads,  carved  by  rustic  art — 
Ye  fountain-heads,  and  countless  spots  around, 
Made  lovely  bj'  your  rills  that  liere  abound — 
Farewell!  and  from  a  wayfarer  receive 
The  horn  which  here  he  dipped,  his  hot  thii'st  to 

relieve. 

Inscriptions  for  fountains  and  shady  re- 
treats were  favorite  subjects  with  the  Anthol- 
ogists. Here  are  two  by  Anyte  of  Tegea,  a 
Poetess,  who  lived  about  700  B.C. : 


ANTHOLOGY.  321 

To  shaggy  Pan,  and  to  the  Fold-Xymphs  fair, 

Fast  by  this  rock  a  shepherd's  offering  stands; 
Theudotus's  gift  to  those  who  gave  him  there 
Rest,  when  lie  fainted  in  the  sultry  air,       [hands. 
And    reached   him   sweetest  water  with   their 

Epitaphs,  or  sepulchral  inscriptions,  are  nu- 
merous in  the  Greek  Anthology.  Among  the 
most  noted  is  that  upon  Prote,  whose  name 
signifies  "the  first,"  and  who  was  probably 
a  first-born  daughter : 

Prote,  thou  art  not  dead;  but  thou  hast  passed 
To  better  lands,  where  pleasures  ever  last; 
To  bound  in  joy  amidst  the  fairest  flowers 
Of  the  Blest  Isles— Elysium's  blooming  bowers. 
Thee  nor  the  Summer's  heat  nor  Winter's  chill 
Shall  e'er  annoy,  exempt  from  every  ill. 
Nor  sickness,  hunger,  thirst  again  distress; 
Nor  dost  thou  long  for  earthly  happiness. 
Contented  thou,  remote  from  human  woes. 
In  the  pure  light  which  from  Olympus  flows. 

The  departure  of  those  who  die  young  fui'- 
nishes  the  theme  of  numerous  epitaphs  in  the 
Anthology.  In  the  followdng,  by  Lucian,  the 
dead  child  is  represented  as  speaking  words 
of  consolation,  presumably  to  his  parents : 

A  boy  of  five  years  old,  serene  and  gay, 
Unpitying  Hades  hurried  me  away. 
Yet  weep  not  for  Calliinachus :  if  few 
The  days  I  lived,  few  were  my  sorrows  too. 

A  touching  threnody  by  Anyte  of  Tegea 
commemorates  a  friend,  who  died  in  her 
maiden  bloom : 

The  maid  Antibia  I  lament;  for  whom 

Full  many  a  suitor  sought  her  father's  hall. 

For  beauty,  prudence,  famed  was  she,  but  doom 
Destructive  overwhelmed  the  hopes  of  all. 

The    following,    by    Paul    the    Silentiary, 
though  of  comparatively  modern  date,  is  con- 
ceived in  the  purest  antique  spirit : 
21 


322  .  ANTHOLOGY. 

Thy  bier,  and  not  thy  bridal  bed,  sweet  maid. 
With  grieving  hands  tliy  parents  have  arrayed. 
Thou  from  life's  ti-oubles  and  from  childbirth's 

pains 
Escapest:  for  them  a  cloud  of  woes  remains. 
Fate,  at  thy  twelfth  year,  wrapped  thee  in  mould; 
In  beauty  young;  in  moral  merits  old. 

We  find  in  the  Anthology  elegiacs  upon 
brides  who  are  called  away  close  upon  their 
nuptials.  This  is  by  Errinna,  a  bosom  friend 
of  the  dead  girl : 

The  virgin  Baucis's  sepulchre  am  I: 
Creep  softly  to  the  pillared  mount  of  woe, 
And  whisper  to  the  grave,  in  earth  below: 

"  Grave!  thou  art  envious  in  thy  cruelty!" 
To  thee  now  gazing  here,  her  barbarous  fate 

These  brides'  adornments  tell :    That  with  the  fire 
Of  Hymen's  torch,  which  led  her  to  the  gate, 

Her  liusband  burned  the  maid  upon  hev  pyre. 
Yes,   Hymen!  thou  didst  change  the  marriage- 
song 
To  the  shrill  wailings  of  the  mourner's  song. 

The  same  thought  is  even  better  expressed 
in  a  threnody  by  Meleager : 

Her  virgin  zone  unloosed,  Cleaera's  charms 
Death  clasps— stern  bridegroom— in  his  iron  arms. 
Hymns  at  the  bridal  doors  last  night  were  sung; 
Last  night  the  bridal  roof  with  revels  rung: 
This  morn  the  wail  was  raised;  and,  hushed  and 

low. 
The  strains  of  joy  were  changed  to  moans  of  woe; 
And  the  bright  torch  to  Hymen's  hall  which  led, 
With  mournful  glare  now  lighted  to  the  dead. 

The  following  is  ascribed  to  Sappho : 

Deep  in  the  dreary  chambers  of  the  dead 
Asteria's  ghost  has  made  her  bridal  bed; 
Still  to  this  stone  her  fond  compeers  may  turn. 
And  shed  their  cherished  tresses  on  her  urn. 

Th^' 'following,  by  an  unknown  author,  is 
among  ttife  most  exquisite  of  the  Greek  sepul- 
chral iuscrijittoils : 


ANTHOLOGY.  323 

This  is  ropillia's  toml).     My  linsltnnd's  care 
Frnnicd  it— Occanus,  of  wisdom  rare. 
Here  vest  mj'^  ashes;  hut  the  Shades  helow, 
Heaving  my  hymns,  thy  goodness,   friend,   shall 

know. 
Think  of  me.  hushand;  and  while  here, 
Drop,  on  the  tomb  I  fill,  the  frequent  tear; 
And  say  "Popillia  slumbers."     Never  think 
That  the  good  die :  to  happy  sleep  they  sink. 

Callimachus  was  a  famous  scholar  of  his 
day,  being  in  the  prime  of  hfe  about  250  B.C., 
a,nd  so  coming  after  the  golden  age  of  Greek 
literature.  He  taught  philosophy  and  belles- 
lettres  at  Alexandria,  in  Egypt ;  was  a  favor- 
ite and  friend  of  the  two  Ptolemies  (surnamed 
"  Philadelphus  "  and  "  Euergetes" )  who  may 
be  regarded  as  joint  founders  of  the  magnifi- 
cent Alexandrian  Library,  at  the  head  of 
which  Callimachus  was  placed.  He  wrote,  it 
is  said,  more  than  800  works  upon  vari- 
ous subjects.  Of  these  only  fragments  are 
now  extant.  Among  these  were  many  "oc- 
casional poems."  One  of  these  is  an  elegy 
upon  his  literary  friend  Heraclitus  of  Halicar- 
nassus,  written  upon  receiving  tidings  of  his 
death,  soon  after  his  return  to  his  native  land, 
calling  to  remembrance  the  pleasant  hours 
they  had  spent  together  when  Heraclitus  was 
the  guest  of  Callimachus  at  Alexandria: 

One  told  me,  Heraclitus,  of  thy  fate, 
Which  brought  the  tear  into  my  eye  to  think 

How  oft  we  two— conversing  long  and  late — 
Have  seen  the  sun  into  his  chamber  sink. 

But  that  is  past  and  gone,  and  somewhere  thou, 

Halicarnassian  guest!  art  ashes  now. 

Yet  live  these  nightingales  of  thine:  on  these 

The  all-grasping  hand  of  Hades  will  not  seize. 

The  Greeks  w^ei^e  notably  a  maritime  peo- 
ple, and  epitaphs  upon  fishermen  and  sailors 
fill  no  little  space  in  the  Anthology.  Allu- 
sion is  often  made  to  the  wearisome  lives  of 


324  AXTIIOLOGY. 

these  toilers  of  the  sea.     The  following  is  by 
Poseidippus : 

Oh,  why,  my  brother  mariners,  so  near  the  bois- 
terous wave 

Of  ocean  have  ye  hollowed  out  my  solitary  grave? 

'Twere  better  much  tliat  farther  off  a  sailor's  tomb 
should  be; 

For  I  dread  my  rude  destroyer;  I  dread  the  roar- 
ing sea. 

But  may  the  smiles  of  fortune,  and  may  love  and 
peace  await 

All  you  who  shed  a  pitying  tear  for  poor  IS'icetas's 
fate. 

The  two  following  are  ascribed  to  Plato; 
but  it  is  by  no  means  certain  whether  we  are 
to  understand  the  philosopher  of  that  name. 
The  first  is  certainly  not  unworthy  of  him : 

I  am  a  shipwrecked  sailor's  tomb:  a  peasant's  there 

doth  stand : 
Thus  the  same  world  of  Hades  lies  beneath  sea 

and  land. 

Ye  mariners!  by  sea  and  lands,  be  yours  a  happy 

dooin: 
But  know  you  now  are  sailing  past  a  shipwrecked 

seaman's  tomb. 

This  is  by  Callimachus : 

Would  that  swift  ships  had  never  been;  for  so 
We  ne'er  had  wept  for  Sopolis.  But  he 

Dead  on  the  waves  now  drifts;  while  we  must  go 
Past  a  void  tomb — a  mere  name's  mockery. 

In  this,  by  Sappho,  the  thought  is  brought 
to  the  extremest  point  of  condensation : 

Here,  to  the  fisher  Pelagon,  her  sire — Meniscos — 

laid 
A  wicker-net  and  oar,  to  sliow  his  weary  trade. 

Slavery  was  a  predominant  feature  of  Greek 
social  life.     The  inscriptions  upon  the  tombs 


ANTHOLOGY.  325 

of  slaves  are  not,  however,  numerous;  but 
some  of  them  are  characteristic.  This  is  by 
Damaskios : 

Zosima  when  livino-  was  only  in  body  chained: 
Now  in  body  also,  her  freedom  hath  she  gained. 

This,  by  Any  te,  is  upon  some  Persian  slave : 

Manes,  when  living  was  a  slave:  dead  now, 
Great  King  Darius!  he's  as  great  as  thou. 

This,  which  is  anonymous,  is  put  into  the 
mouth  of  another  Persian  slave,  a  fire-wor- 
shipper, apparently  of  noble  lineage,  who 
bore  the  name  of  the  great  river  upon  whose 
banks  he  had  dwelt : 

Burn  not  Euphrates,  master:  let  not  Fire 
Be  here  polluted  for  my  funeral  pyre. — 
A  Persian  born,  of  Persia's  genuine  race, 
Fire  to  profane,  to  me  were  dire  disgrace. 
Lay  me  in  earth;  nor  e'er  bring  water  here 
To  wash  me :  liivers  also  I  revere. 

Yet  ancient  slavery  w^as  not— any  more  than 
modern— without  its  genial  side.  This  is  set 
forth  in  the  two  following  epitaphs,  by  Dios- 
corides. 

A  slave — a  Lydian — yet  my  master  gave 
To  me,  who  fostered  him,  a  freeman's  grave. 
Master!  live  long;  and  when  on  life's  declme 
You  come  to  Hades,  there  I'll  still  be  thine. 

The  same  general  thought  is  touchingly  ex- 
pressed in  an  epitaph  by  an  unknown  writer: 

Master!  to  thee  still  faithful  I  remain 
In  death ;  and  still  my  grateful  thoughts  retain 
How,  rescued  thrice  from  fell  disease  by  thee, 
I  fill  this  cell,  where  passers-by  may  see 
Manes,  the  Persian's  tomb:  for  such  good  deed 
Service  more  true  from  all  will  be  thy  meed. 


326  ANTHOLOGY. 

The  amatory  poems  in  the  Greek  An- 
thology are  very  numerous.  Probably  the 
best  are  by  Anacreon,  and  have  been  touched 
upon  under  his  name.  The  passion  of  love 
is  usually  personified  as  Eros,  or  Cui^id.' 
Some  of  the  best  of  these  poems  are  by  Mel- 
eager,  who  lived  in  the  first  century  B.C. 
We  quote  a  few  of  these : 

Dreadful  is  Eros!  dreadful!  but  where's  the  good 
That  oft  this  cry  of  "  dreadful!  "  is  renewed  ? 
The  urchin  lauglis  at  us.     Though  o'er  and  o'er 
Reproached,  he's  pleased;  reviled,  he  thrives  the 
more. 

Again : 

No  wonder  Cupid  is  a  murderous  boy; 
A  liery  arclier,  making  pain  his  joy. 
His  dam,  wliile  fond  of  Mars,  is  Vulcan's  wife; 
And  thus  'twixt  lire  and  sword,  divides  her  life. 
His  mother's  mother  too:  Why,  that's  the  Seal 
When  lashed  with  winds,  a  roaring  fury  she. 
No  fatlier  has  he,  and  no  father's  kin: 
'Tis  throu^'h  his  mother  all  his  faults  flow  in. 
Thus  has  he  Vulcan's  flames;  the  wild  Sea's  rage; 
And  Mars' s  blood-stained  darts  his  wars  on  us  to 
wage. 

In  a  quite  different  strain  is  the  following 
addressed  to  Heliodora,  whose  death  he 
laments  in  another  poem : 

I'll  frame,  my  Heliodora!  a  garland  for  thy  hair 
Which  thou,  in  all  thy  beauty's  pride,  mayst  not 

disdain  to  wear: 
For  I,   with   tender  myrtles,    white   violets  will 

•  twine — 
White  violets,  but  not  so  pure  as  that  pure  breast 

of  thine; 
With  laughing  lilies  I  will  twine  narcissus;  and 

the  sweet 
Crocus  shall  in  its  hue  with  purple  hyacinth  meet; 
And  I  will  twine  with  all  the  rest — and  all  the 

rest  above — 
Queen  of  them  all.  the  red,  red  rose — the  flower 

which  lovers  love. 


ANTHOLOGY.  327 

The  following,  by  Callistratus,  has  often 
been  imitated  and  expanded  by  later  poets  in 
all  languages : 

I  wish  I  were  an  ivory  lyre, 

A  lyre  of  burnished  ivory, 
That  to  the  Dionysian  choir 

Blooming  boys  might  carry  me. — 
O  wouhl  I  were  a  chalice  bright 

Of  vir^'in  gold  by  fire  untried, 
For  virgin  chaste  as  morning  light 

To  bear  me  to  the  altar  side. 

Laudations  of  the  great  names  in  Greek 
poetry  abound  in  the  Anthology.  Only  a 
few  of  the  briefest  of  these  have  a  quaint 
turn.     Thus,  of  Homer : 

I,  Phcebns,  sang  those  songs  that  gained  so  much 

renown ; 
I,  Phcebus,  sang  them:  Homer  only  wrote  them 

down. 

Homer  so  sang  of  Troy  destroyed  by  fire, 
That  envy  seized  the  towns  that  stood  entire. 

Seven  cities  vied  for  Homer's  birth,  with  enuila- 

tion  pious: 
Salamis,  Samos,  Colophon,  Khodes,  Argos,  xVthens, 

Chios. 

Upon  JUschylus ;  both  by  Dioscorides : 

Thespis's  invention,  and  the  sylvan  plays. 

And  Bacchic  games  that  gained  the  rustic's  praise, 

^schylus  raised  aloft,  and  nobler  made ; 

Not  bringing  carved  and  curious  Avords  to  aid. 

But  like  a  torrent  rushing  down  with  force, 

And  stirring  all  things  m  its  jniglity  course, 

He  changed  the  stage's  forms.       O  voice  sublime. 

Fit  for  a  demigod  of  ancient  time. 

This  tombstone  tells,  "Here  ^Eschylus  is  laid," 
By  Gela's  streams,  from  his  own  land  afar: 

Illustrious  bard!  what  envi<ms  fate  has  made 
Athenians  ever  with  good  men  at  war? 


328  ANTHOLOGY. 

Inscription  for  the  Cenotaph  of  Euripides : 

This  tombstone  is  no  monnment  of  thee; 

But  thou  of  it,  Euripides,  shalt  be; 

Tliy  glory  clothes  it,  and  men  come  to  see. 

This,  upon  Aristophanes,  is  ascribed  to 
Plato: 

The  Graces  sought  some  holy  ground, 

Whose  site  should  ever  please ; 
And  in  their  search  the  soul  they  found 

Of  Aristophanes. 

Upon  Sappho ;  by  various  authors : 

Sappho  my  name,  in  song  o'er  women  held 
As  far  supreme  as  Homer  men  excelled. 

This  tomb  reveals  where  Sappho's  ashes  lie, 
But  her  sweet  words  of  wisdom  ne'er  will  die. 

Some  thoughtlessly  proclaim  the  Muses  nine ; 
A  tenth  is  Sappho,  maid  divine. 

Upon  Herodotus,  whose  History  is  in  nine 
books,  each  bearing  the  name  of  one  of  the 
Muses : 

The  Muses  to  Herodotus  one  day 
Came — Nine  of  them— and  dined; 

And  in  return,  their  host  to  pay, 
Left  each  a  Book  behind. 

Upon  Plato,  who,  according  to  legend,  was 
the  son  not  of  a  mortal  father;  but,  like 
^sculapius,  of  Apollo : 

^sculapius   and  Plato  too,   Thoebus  to  mortals 

gave. 
That  one  the  body,  one  the  soul,  from  maladies 

might  save. 

Epigrams  upon  works  of  art  are  not  nu- 
merous. Among  them  is  one  by  an  unknow-n 
waiter,  upon  two  statues— one  of  Bacchus, 
the  other  of  Pallas— which  stood  near  each 
other  in  some  public  place.     The  epigramma- 


ANTHOLOGY.  320 

list  asks  of  the  former  what  reasoM  tliere 
could  have  been  for  this  juxtaposition;  and 
gives  the  explanation  made  by  the  God  of 
Wine: 

"  Say  Bacchus,  why  so  placed?    What  can  there  be 
In  common  held  by  Pallas  and  Ijy  thee? 
Her  pleasure  is  in  darts  and  battles;  thine 
In  joyous  feasts  and  draughts  of  rosy  wine." 

"Stranger,  not  rashly  of  the  gods  thus  speak; 
Our  mutual  likeness  is  not  far  to  seek: 
I  too  in  Ijattle  glory;  Indians  know 
In  me.  to  ocean's  edge,  a  conquering  foe. 
Mankind  we  both  have  blessed :  The  olive  she 
Has  given;  the  vine's  sweet  clusters  come  from 

me, 
Xor  she  nor  I  e'er  caused  a  mother's  pains: 
I   from   Jove's    thigli    produced,  she  from    his 

brains." 

The  sculptor,  Praxiteles,  executed  several 
statues  of  Venus;  one  of  these,  which  was 
entirely  nude,  was  set  up  at  Cnidos.  The 
Goddess  of  Love  is  said  to  have  gone  to  vieAv 
this  nude  figure  of  herself.  Upon  this  there 
are  several  epigrams.  The  best  of  them  is 
ascribed  to  Plato : 

The  Paphian  Queen  to  Cnidos  ma  Ic  repair, 
Across  the  tide  to  see  her  image  there : 
Then  looking  up  and  round  the  prospect  wide, 
"  Where  did  Praxiteles  see  me  thus?  "  she  cried. 

The  following,  on  the  same  subject,  is 
briefer  and  more  pointed : 

Said  Venus,  when  Venus  in  Cnidos  she  viewed : 
"  Fie!  where  did  Praxiteles  see  me  thus  nude?  " 

The  statue  of  the  Olympian  Jove,  by 
Phidias,  was  the  most  famous  one  of  all 
antiquity.     Upon  this  there  is  this  epigi-am : 

Either  Zeus  came   to  eaitli  to  show  his  form  to 

thee, 
Phidias,  or  thou  to  heaven  hast  gone  the  god  to 

see. 


330  ANTHOLOGY. 

The  foUoAving  epigram,  by  Archelaus,  is 
upon  a  bronze  statue  of  Alexander  the  Great: 

Lysippus  formed  in  bronze  the  courage  liigh 

Of  Alexander,  and  his  aspect  bold : 
The  bronze  looks  up  to  heaven,  and  seems  to  cry: 

"  The  Earth    is    mine;  thou,  Zeus,    Olympus 
hold!" 

The  witty  and  satirical  epigrams  in  the 
Anthology  are  numerous;  but  they  relate 
mainly  to  mere  local  subjects,  so  that  the 
point  of  them  is  to  a  great  extent  lost  to  us. 
There  ai'e  several,  however,  which  reappear, 
as  original,  amOng  English  satirists.  As 
these : 

Damon,  who  plied  the  Undertaker's  trade, 
With  Doctor  Crateas  an  agreement  made : 
What  linens  Damon  from  the  dead  could  seize, 
lie  to  the  Doctor  sent  for  bandages; 
While  the  good  Doctor — here  no  promise-breaker — 
iSent  all  his  patients  to  the  Undertaker. 

Dick  canni)t  blow  his  nose  whene'er  he  pleases — 
His  nose  so  long  is,  and  his  arm  so  short; 

Nor  ever  cries,  "  God  bless  us! "  when  he  sneezes — 
He  cannot  hear  so  distant  a  report. 

Cellia,  your  mirror's  false;  you  could  not  bear, 
If  it  were  true,  to  see  your  image  there. 

A  blockhead,  bit  by  fleas,  put  out  the  light, 
And  chuckling   cried,    "Now  you   can't  see  to 
bite!" 

A  viper  bit  a  Cappadocian's  hide; 

But  'twas  the  viper,  not  the  man,  that  died. 

Lerians  are  bad:  not  some  bad,  and  some  not. 
But  all.     There's  not  a  Lerian,  in  the  lot. 
Save  Procles,  that  you  could  a  good  man  call : — 
And  Pi-ocles  is — a  Lerian,  after  all. 

Men  die  when  the  night-raven  sings  or  cries; 
But  when  Dick  sings,  e'en  the  night-raven  dies. 


CHARLES  ANTHON.  331 

Nicias,  a  Doctor  aiul  Musician, 

Lies  under  veiy  foul  sus2)icion: 
He  sings,  and  without  any  sliaine 

He  murders  all  the  finest  music; 
Does  he  prescribe,  our  fate's  the  same, 

If  he  shall  e'er  find  me  or  you  sick. 

All  wives  are  iilagues;  yet  two  blest  times  have 

they: 
Their  bridal  first,  and  then  their  burial  day. 

ANTHON,  Charles,  LL.D.,  an  American 
scholar,  born  in  New  York  in  1797,  died  July 
29,  18G7.  He  entered  Columbia  College  at 
the  age  of  fourteen ;  studied  law  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  State  of  New  York  in  1819.  His  attention 
was  however  given  mainly  to  classical  stud- 
ies, and  in  1820,  when  only  twenty-three 
yeare  of  age,  he  was  appointed  Adjunct-Pro- 
fessor of  Languages  in  Columbia  CoUege; 
and  in  1835,  upon  the  resignation  of  Prof. 
Moore,  he  became  Professor,  having  in  fact 
exercised  the  functions  of  that  position  for 
several  yeare.  About  1830  he  commenced 
the  preparation  of  that  series  of  text-books  in 
classical  li'terature  which  in  time  came  to  in- 
clude nearly  all  of  the  Latin  authors  usually 
read  in  our  colleges,  besides  several  of  the 
leading  Greek  authors.  The  texts  of  these 
works  was  accompanied  with  very  full  notes 
and  prolegomena.  Of  this  series  a  competent 
English  critic  said:  "Dr.  Anthon  has  done 
more  for  sound  classical  school  literature 
than  any  half-dozen  Englishmen."  Besides 
these  annotated  classical  texts  Prof.  Anthon 
wrote  or  edited  Greek  and  Latin  Grammars; 
works  upon  Greek  and  Latin  Prosody,  Versiji- 
cation,  and  Composition;  Dictionaries  upon 
Classical  Biography,  and  Antiquities ;  Larger 
and  Smaller  Lexicons  of  both  languages ;  and 
a  System  of  Ancient  and  Mediceval  Geography. 


832  THOMAS  AQUIXAS. 

The  entire  number  of  his  works  in  these  vari- 
ous departments  is  not  less  than  50 ;  of  which 
nearly  half  are  annotated  editions  of  Latin 
and  Greek  authors. 

AQUINAS,  Thoimas  (or  Thomas  of  Aquino), 
Saint,  an  Italian  theologian,  born  at  the 
Castle  of  Eocca  Secca,  in  the  Kingdom  of 
Naples,  about  1224;  died  in  1274.  He  was  a 
younger  son  of  the  Count  of  Aqumo;  was 
trained  in  the  Benedictine  monastery  at 
Monte  Casino,  to  the  abbacy  of  which  it  was 
expected  that  he  would  succeed,  and  subse- 
quently studied  at  the  University  of  Naples. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen,  in  opposition  to  the 
wishes  of  his  family,  he  determined  to  enter 
the  Order  of  the  Dominicans.  His  brothers 
had  him  brought  to  the  ancestral  castle, 
where  he  was  kept  under  close  guard  for  two 
yeai's,  when  he  made  his  escape,  and  went  to 
the  Dominican  convent  at  Cologne,  in  Ger- 
many, He  here  became  a  pupil  of  the  famous 
Albert  of  Bollstadt,  usually  denominated 
' '  Albertus  Magnus. ' '  He  pursued  his  scholas- 
tic studies  with  great  diligence,  but  with  such 
persistent  silence  that  his  fellow  students 
nicknamed  him  "the  Dumb  Ox;"  Albertus, 
however,  is  said  to  have  predicted  that  "  this 
dumb  ox  will  some  day  fill  the  w^orld  with 
his  bellowings."  After  studying  at  Cologne 
for  some  years,  he  went  to  Paris,  where  he 
established  himself  as  a  teacher  of  the  Aris- 
totelian philosophy,  with  which  he  had  be- 
come thoroughly  imbued.  He  there  acquired 
a  high  reputation ;  but  the  Sorbonne  was  in- 
imical to  the  "  mendicant  monks,"  and  it  was 
not  until  1257,  when  he  was  about  tiiirty- 
thi^ee  years  old,  that  x\quinas  received  the 
formal  degree  of  "'Doctor."  He  became  in- 
volved in  a  furious  dispute  with  his  oppo- 
nents, who  impugned  not  only  his  Order  but 
his    teachings.      A  public    disputation    Avas 


THOMAS  AQUIXAS.  333 

held  in  the  presence  of  Pope  Alexander  IV., 
in  which  Aquinas  completely  worsted  his  op- 
ponents, whose  works  were  formally  con- 
demned. He  continued  to  lecture  with  great 
applause  at  Paris  until  1261,  when  the  new 
Pope,  Urban  IV.,  summoned  him  to  Italy  to 
teach  philosophy  in  the  schools  of  Rome, 
Bologna,  and  Pisa.  He  took  up  his  abode  in 
the  Convent  at  Naples,  having  declined  to  ac- 
cept the  proffered  dignity  of  Archbishop, 
preferring  to  devote  himself  to  study,  lectur- 
ing, and  writing.  In  1274  he  was  summoned 
by  Pope  Gregory  X.  to  attend  a  General 
Council  to  be  held  at  Lyon,  in  France,  which 
is  known  in  ecclesiastical  history  as  "The 
Second  CEcumenical  Synod  of  Lyon."  But 
he  had  hardly  set  out  upon  his  journey  when 
he  was  seized  by  a  fatal  illness  at  Forcanuova, 
in  the  Kingdom  of  Naples,  whero  ho  died. 
It  was  alleged  that  he  had  been  poisoned  at 
the  instigation  of  King  Charles  I.  of  Sicily, 
who  dreaded  the  representations  which  Aqui- 
nas would  make  at  the  Council  of  his  miscon- 
duct as  a  sovei-eign. 

Numerous  legends  have  come  down  to  us  of 
miraculous  incidents  in  the  life  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas.  These  are  collected  in  the  recent 
voluminous  work  by  the  Very  Rev.  Roger 
Bede  Vaughan,  O.S.B.  The  account  of  these 
miracles  was  received  with  such  credence 
that  Pope  John  XXII. ,  in  1323,  ordered  his 
canonization,  and  he  is  knoAvn  in  ecclesiasti- 
cal history  as  "St.  Thomas  Aquinas.'" 

No  theologian  of  his  day  exercised  so  wude 
an  influence  upon  religious  thought  as  did 
Thomas  Aquinas.  He  was  then,  and  long 
after,  designated  as  the  "Universal  Doctoi"," 
the  "Angelic  Doctor,"  and  the  "Second  Au- 
gustine." His  published  Woi-ks  are  very  nu- 
merous. The  complete  edition  of  them  put 
forth  at  Rome,  in  1570,  under  the  direction  of 


334  THOMAS  AQUIXAS. 

Pope  Pius  v.,  fills  eighteen  large  volumes. 
The  principal  of  these  works  are  the  Commen- 
tarim  on  the  Four  Books  of  Sentences  of 
Peter  Lombard;  the  Siminia  Fidei  CathoUca 
contra  Gentiles ;  and  the  Summa  Theologica. 
This  last  is  his  greatest  work.  In  the  Paris 
edition  of  1532,  it  fonns  a  folio  volume  of 
something  like  1500  pages,  ea,ch  page  contain- 
ing matter  equivalent  to  eight  or  ten  pages  of 
this  Cyclopedia.  The  indexes  alone  would 
make  a  goodly  volume.  There  is  an  English 
translation  of  this  stupendous  work,  which 
occupies  eight  large  octavo  volumes.  And 
yet  the  work  is  unfinished.  Had  Thomas 
Aquinas  lived  to  threescore  and  ten,  instead 
of  dying  as  he  did  at  fifty  or  less,  no  one  can 
even  guess  how  many  more  volumes  he  would 
have  written.  It  would  be  impossible  within 
any  reasonable  space  to  present  anything  like 
a  representation  of  this  enoi"mous  book,  of 
which  there  are  not  wanting  those  who  affirm 
that  it  is  the  most  valuable  for  the  theologian 
which  has  ever  been  written.  The  following 
extract  from  one  of  the  minor  works  of  Aqui- 
nas will  give  some  idea  of  the  manner  of 
' '  the  Angelic  Doctor : " 

ox  THE  PIUMACY  OF  THE  POPE. 

Tlie  error  of  those  who  say  the  Vicar  of  Christ, 
the  Pontiff  of  tlie  Uoman  Churcli,  does  not  pos- 
sess the  primacy  of  the  Universal  Church,  is  hke 
the  errors  of  those  wlio  declare  that  the  Holy- 
Spirit  does  iiot  proceed  from  the  Son.  For  Christ 
himself,  the  Sou  of  God,  consecrates  and  seals  it 
to  Himself,  as  it  were,  with  his  own  character 
and  seal,  as  is  manifest  from  the  aforesaid 
authorities.  And  in  like  manner  the  Vicar  of 
Christ,  by  his  primacy  and  providence,  like  a 
faithful  minister,  keeps  the  Universal  Churcli 
subject  to  Christ.  It  must  be  shown  therefore, 
on  the  authority  of  the  Greek  doctors,  that  the 
aforesaid  Vicar  of  Christ  possesses  the  plenitude 
of  power  over  the  whole  Church.     That  the  Ro- 


THOMAS  AQUINAS.  335 

mail  Pontiff,  the  successor  of  Peter,  and  the 
Vicar  of  Christ,  is  the  first  and  greatest  of  all  the 
bishops,  the  Canon  of  the  Council  expressly  shows, 
saying:  "We  venerate,  according  to  the  Script- 
ures, and  the  definition  of  the  Canons,  the  most 
holy  Bishop  of  ancient  Rome  as  the  first  and 
greatest  of  all  the  bishops."  The  Sacred  Script- 
ures agree  with  this  authority,  and  both  in  the 
Gospels  and  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  give  the 
first  place  to  Peter  among  the  Apostles.  Hence 
Chrysostom  says,  in  his  Commentary  upon  Mat- 
thew, upon  the  words,  "  The  disciples  came  to 
Jesus  saying:  Who  is  the  greatest  in  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  ? "  that  they  conceived  a  certain 
human  scandal  which  they  were  unable  to  con- 
ceal, and  they  could  not  bear  the  ideer  in  their 
heart  on  seeing  Peter  preferred  and  lionored 
before  themselves.  It  is  shown  also  that  the 
aforesaid  Vicar  of  Christ  obtains  universal  prelacy 
over  the  whole  Cliurch  of  Christ.  For  we  read  in 
the  Council  of  Chalcedon  that  the  whole  Synod 
exclaimed  to  Pope  Leo:  "Long  life  to  the  Most 
Holy,  Apostolical,  and  CEcumenical  [that  is  Uni- 
versal] Patriarch!"  And  Chrysostom  ujion 
Matthew:  "The  Son  conceded  to  Peter  power 
belonging  to  the  Father  and  Son  all  over  the  earth, 
and  gave  authority  over  all  things  which  are  in 
heaven  to  a  mortal  man,  granting  to  him  the  keys 
that  he  might  spread  the  Church  throughout  the 
earth."  And  upon  John,  in  the  eighty-fifth 
Homily:  "  He  circumscribes  James  locally  in  a 
given  place,  but  he  appoints  Peter  the  master  and 
doctor  of  the  whole  world."  Likewise  upon  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles:  "Peter  received  power 
from  the  Son  over  all  who  are  sons,  not  as  Moses 
over  one  people,  but  over  the  whole  world."  This 
also  is  drawn  from  the  authority  of  Sacred  Script- 
ure; for  Christ  committed  his  sheep  to  Peter, 
saying,  without  distinction,  "Feed  my  sheeii;" 
and  "  that  there  be  one  fold  and  one  shepherd." 
It  follows  from  the  authority  of  the  said  Doctors 
that  the  Roman  Pontitf  possesses  the  plenitude  of 
power  in  the  Church. — Trand.  of  Vawjlian. 


03(J  THE  AIIABIAN  NIGHTS. 

AEABIAN  NIGHTS'  ENTEETAINMENTS, 
The.  Early  in  the  last  century  (1704-1717) 
Antoine  Galland,  a  French  orientalist,  put 
forth  twelve  small  volumes,  which  he  en- 
titled Mille  et  Uns  Nuits — Contes  Arabes, 
which  he  professed  to  have  translated  from 
an  unknown  Arabian  author.  It  was  at 
first  assumed  by  critics  that  Galland  was 
himself  the  author  of  these  tales :  but  before 
long  it  became  evident  that  so  far  from  being 
the  author  of  these  Contes,  Galland  had 
greatly  abridged  them  in  his  French  transla- 
tion. The  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  as 
translated  into  French,  became  a  very  popu- 
lar book,  and  was  re- translated  into  many 
European  languages,  and  gave  rise  to  nu- 
merous imitations.  In  18-11  Mr.  EdAvard 
William  Lane,  who  had  long  resided  at  Cairo 
in  an  official  capacity,  put  forth  a  new  trans- 
lation in  three  large  volumes,  of  which  sev' 
eral  editions  *  have  been  subsequently  pub- 
lished. This  version  is  acknowledged  to  be 
by  far  the  best  which  has  been  made  into 
English;  and  our  extracts  will  be  from  it. 

Of  the  author,  or  more  probably  compiler 
of  these  tales,  nothing  is  known.  Baron  de 
Sacy  says:  "It  appears  to  me  that  it  was 
originally  written  in  Syria,  and  in  the  vulgar 
dialect;  that  it  was  never  completed  by  its 
author ;  that  subsequently  imitators  endeav- 
ored to  perfect  the  work  either  by  the  in- 
sei'tion  of  novels  already  known,  but  which 
formed  no  part  of  the  original  collection,  or 
by  composing  some  themselves,  with  more 
or  less  talent,  whence  arise  the  great  varia- 
tions observable  among  the  different  MSS.  of 
the  collection;  that  the  inserted  tales  were 
added  at  different  pei'iods,  and  perhaps  in 
different  countries,  but  chiefly  in  Egypt." — 
We  can,  however,  form  an  approximate 
judgment  as  to  tlie  period  when  the  original 


THE  ARABIAN  XIGIITS.  3:17 

collection  was  made.  A  large  number  of  the 
tales  are  based  upon  the  supposed  adventures 
of  Haroun-al-Raschid,  caliph  of  Bagxlad,  who 
fioiu'ished  about  800  a.d.  But  Haroun  had 
already  assumed  a  legendary  character  when 
these  adventures  were  invented.  We  cannot 
therefore  date  them  earlier  than  the  year 
900,  three  generations  after  his  death.  Again 
there  is  no  mention  of  the  use  of  coffee  or 
the  pipe,  which  play  so  important  a  .part  in 
pictures  of  modern  Oriental  life.  Coffee 
appears  to  have  come  into  use  in  Arabia  and 
Egypt  somewhere  about  1450;  and  the  date 
of  the  collection  can  hardly  have  been  later 
than  this ;  though  there  are  reasons  for  plac- 
ing it  considerably  earlier,  even  before  the 
time  of  the  Crusades ;  for  we  find  no  allusion 
to  the  bitter  hostility  between  Mohamme- 
dans and  Christians  which  was  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  period  subsequent  to  the  year 
1100.  From  all  these  indicia  we  may  assign 
the  probable  date  of  this  compilation  to  the 
century  between  a.d.  950  and  1050. 

The  scene  of  many  of  the  tales  is  laid  in 
the  remote  ages — as  dateless  as  eternity — the 
mj^thical  times  of  magicians  and  enchanters. 
The  comiDiler  has  connected  the  separate 
tales,  which  he  found  or  made,  by  a  slight 
thread  of  narrative.  The  work  is  prefaced 
with  this  pious  exordium: 

THE   EXORDIUM   TO   THE   AKABIAN   NIOHTS. 

In  the  name  of  God,  tlie  Compassionate,  the 
Aferciful:  Praise  be  to  God  the  Benelicent  King, 
the  Creator  of  the  Universe,  who  hath  raised  the 
Heavens  without  pillars,  and  spread  out  the 
Earth  as  a  bed;  and  blessing  and  peace  be  on 
the  Lord  of  Apostles,  our  Lord  and  our  Master 
Mohammed,  and  his  Family,  blessing  and  peace, 
unending  and  constant,  unto  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment:— To  proceed:  The  lives  of  former  genera- 
tions are  a  lesson  to  posterity,  that  a  man  may 
•i2 


338  THE  ARABIAN  NIOHTS. 

review  the  remarkable  events  which  have  ha,p' 
pened  to  otliers,  and  be  admonislied;  and  may 
consider  the  history  of  people  of  preceding  ages, 
and  of  all  that  hath  befallen  them  and  be  re- 
strained. Extolled  be  the  perfection  of  Him  who 
hath  thus  ordained  the  history  of  former  genera- 
tions to  be  a  lesson  to  those  which  follow.  Such 
are  the  Tales  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights, 
with  their  romantic  stories  and  fables. 

Then  comes  the  legendary  fable  which  binds 
together  all  the  multifarious  tales. 

SHAHIUAR,    SITAHZEMAN    AND   SCHEHERAZADE. 

It  is  related — (but  God  alone  is  all-knowing  and 
all-wise) — that  there  was  in  ancient  times  a  King 
of  the  countries  of  India  and  China,  possessing 
numeri)us  troops  and  guards  and  servants  and 
domestic  dependents.  And  he  had  two  sons,  one 
of  whom  was  a  man  of  mature  age,  and  the  other 
a  youth.  Both  of  these  princes  were  brave  horse- 
men, but  especially  the  elder,  who  inherited  the 
kingdom  of  his  father,  and  governed  his  subjects 
with  such  justice  that  the  inhabitants  of  his 
country  loved  him;  he  was  called  King  Shahriar. 
His  brother  was  named  Shahzeman,  and  was 
King  of  Samarcand. 

After  the  lapse  of  twenty  years  passed  in 
their  separate  kingdoms,  Shahriar  desired 
to  see  his  younger  brother,  and  sent  his 
Vizier  to  Samarcand  to  fetch  him.  Shahze- 
man had  not  proceeded  far  when  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  left  behind  something 
which  he  wished  to  take  with  him.  He 
returned  to  his  palace  at  midnight,  and  found 
his  Queen  sleeping  in  the  arms  of  one  of  her 
slaves.  He  slew  them  both,  and  then  re- 
sumed his  journey  to  greet  his  brother.  It 
was  not  long  before  he  discovered  that  Shah- 
riar had  in  like  manner  been  dishonored 
by  his  Queen,  who  was  caught  in  flagrante 
delictu  with  one  of  her  slaves.  Shahriar  had 
her  put  to  death,  with  her  pai'amovu',  and  all 


THE  ARABIAN  NIUIITS.  3;i9 

who  might  have  been  their  accomplices. 
King  Shahriar  then  devised  a  scheme  by 
which  he  should  never  again  be  liable  to  such 
ignominy.  Every  night  he  would  take  to  his 
bed  a  noble  young  virgin,  who  on  leaving  the 
chamber  in  the  morning  should  be  met  at  the 
door  by  the  Vizier,  and  be  at  once  put  to 
death.  This  went  on  for  three  years,  at  the 
end  of  which  there  Avas  left  in  the  capital 
scarcely  a  noble  virgin  fit  to  be  the  one- 
night's  consort  of  the  King. 

It  so  happened  that  the  Vizier  had  two 
young  daughters — Scheherazade,  famed  as  a 
story-teller,  and  Dinarzade.  The  elder  sister 
announced  to  her  father  that  she  Avould  run 
all  risks  and  become  the  spouse  of  the  King. 
"Either,"  she  said,  "I  shall  die,  and  be  a 
ransom  of  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  Mo- 
hammedans, or  I  shall  live,  and  be  the  cause 
of  their  deliverance  from  him."  In  vain  did 
the  Vizier  endeavor  to  dissuade  her  from  her 
purpose,  enforcing  his  arguments  by  several 
stories,  which  are  duly  narrated.  At  last  he 
gave  in,  and  Scheherazade,  who  had  already 
instructed  her  sister  what  to  do,  was  brought 
into  the  chamber  of  the  King,  who  was 
charmed  with  her  appearance  and  demeanor, 
and  even  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  her  pur- 
pose, setting  quite  candidly  before  her  what 
would  be  the  inevitable  result  upon  the 
next  morning.  As  the  evening  wore  away 
Scheherazade  fell  into  a  violent  fit  of  weep- 
ing. 

Whereupon  asked  the  King,  "What  aileth 
thee?"  She  answered,  " O  King,  I  have  a  young 
sister,  and  I  wish  to  take  leave  of  her."  So  the 
King  sent  for  Dinarzade,  and  she  came  to  her  sis- 
ter, and  embraced  her,  and  sat  near  the  foot  of  the 
bed;  and  after  she  had  waited  for  a  proper  oppor- 
tunity, she  said,  "  By  Allah,  O  my  sister,  relate 
to  us  a  story  to  beguile  the  waking  hour  of  uinlit." 


340  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

— "Most  willingly,"  answered  Scheherazade,  "if 
this  virtuous  King  permit  us." — The  King,  hear- 
ing these  words,  and  being  restless,  gave  consent. 
And  thus  on  the  first  night  of  the  Thousand  and 
One,  Scheherazade  commenced  her  recitations; 

The  narrative  now  goes  on  naturally  enough. 
The  King  Avas  so  charmed  with  the  first  story 
— w^hich  was  broken  off  just  when  it  began  to 
grow  most  exciting — tliat  lie  forbore  to  give 
the  customary  order  for  the  execution  on  the 
following  morning;  and  so  on  from  day  to 
day,  week  to  week,  month  to  month,  and 
year  to  year,  until  a  thousand  and  one  nights 
had  passed.  Some  of  Scheherazade's  stoi'ies 
were  quite  long,  occupying  many  successive 
nights  in  their  recital.  But  the  King  ahvays 
wanted  to  listen  to  more.  In  fact,  as  nearly 
as  we  can  keep  up  the  chronology,  hardly 
half  of  the  stories  of  these  thousand  and  one 
nights  are  embodied  in  the  manuscript  from 
which  Mr.  Lane  has  translated.  The  denoue- 
ment of  the  whole  narrative  is  thus  given : 

END  OF  THE  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  NIGHTS. 

Scheherazade,  during  this  period,  had  borne  the 
King  three  male  children;  and  when  she  had 
ended  these  tales  she  rose  upon  her  feet  and 
kissed  the  ground  before  the  King,  and  said  to 
him,  "O  King  of  the  time,  and  incomparable  one 
of  the  age  and  period !  verily  I  am  thy  slave,  and 
during  a  thousand  and  one  nights  I  have  related  to 
thee  the  history  of  the  preceding  generations  and 
the  admonitions  of  former  times.  Then  have  I 
any  claim  upon  thy  Majesty,  so  that  i  may  request 
of  thee  to  grant  me  a  wish?  "  And  the  King  an- 
swered her,  "  Eequest:  thou  .slialt  receive,  O  Sche- 
herazade!" So  thereupon  she  called  out  to  the 
nurses  and  the  eunuchs,  and  said  to  them,  "  Bring 
ye  my  children."  Accordingly  they  brought  them 
to  her  quickly.  And  they  were  three  male  chil- 
dren: one  of  them  walked,  and  one  crawled,  and 
one  was  at  the  breast.     And  wIku  they  brouglit 


THE  AKABiAN  IS'KHIT.S.  ;341 

tlieni,  she  took  them  aiul  placed  them  before  the 
King;  and  having  kissed  the  ground,  she  said,  *"  O 
King  of  the  age,  tliese  are  thy  chiklren,  and  I  re- 
quest of  thee  tliat  thou  exempt  me  from  shiughter, 
as  a  favor  to  these  infants;  for  if  thou  slay  me, 
these  infants  will  become  without  a  mother,  and 
will  not  find  among  women  one  who  w^ill  rear 
them  well.  " 

And  thereupon  the  King  wept,  and  pressed  his 
children  to  his  bosom,  and  said,  "  O  Scheherazade, 
by  Allah,  I  pardoned  thee  before  the  coming  of 
tliese  children,  because  I  saw  thee  to  be  chaste, 
jiure,  ingenuous,  pious.  May  God  bless  thee,  and 
thy  father  and  thy  mother,  and  thy  root  and  thy 
branch!  I  call  God  to  witness  against  me  that  I 
have  exempted  thee  from  everything  that  might 
injure  thee." 

So  she  kissed  his  hands  and  his  feet,  and  re- 
joiced vvith  exceeding  joy.  And  she  said  unto 
him,  "  May  God  prolong  thy  life,  and  increase  thy 
dignity  and  majesty." — .Toy  spread  throughout 
the  palace  of  the  King,  until  it  became  diffused 
throughout  the  city;  and  it  was  a  night  not  to  be 
reckoned  among  lives;  its  color  was  whiter  than 
the  face  of  day.  The  King  arose  in  the  morning 
happy,  and  with  prosperity  inundated.  .  .  .  And 
he  and  the  people  of  his  empire  continued  in  pros- 
perity and  joy,  and  delight  and  happiness,  until 
they  were  visited  by  the  terminator  of  delights 
and  the  separator  of  companions. 

As  the  Arabian  Nights  opened  with  a  de- 
vout exordium,  so  the  work  closes  with  a  no 
less  devout  ascription. 

THE   ASCRIPTION. 

Extolled  be  the  perfection  of  Him  whom  the 
vicissitudes  of  times  do  not  destroy,  and  to  whom 
no  change  happeneth ;  whom  no  circumstance  di- 
verteth  from  another  circumstance,  and  who  is 
alone  distinguished  by  the  attributes  of  ijerfection! 
And  blessing  and  peace  be  on  the  Imam  of  his 
Majesty,  nnd  the  elect  from  among  his  creatiu'cs, 
our  Lord  Mohammed,  the  Lord  of  mankind, 
through  whom  we  supplicate  God  for  a  happy  end. 


342  THE  AEABIAN  NIGHTS. 

Among  the  shortest  of  these  tales,  and  one 
of  the  best  of  all,  is  the  story  of  the  Fisherman, 
the  telling  of  which  occupied  about  six  of 
these  thousand  and  one  nights. 

THE  FISHERMAN  AND  THE  AFRITE. 

There  was  a  certain  fisherman,  advanced  in  age, 
who  had  a  wife  and  three  children;  and,  though 
he  was  in  indigent  circumstances,  it  was  his  cus- 
tom to  cast  liis  net  every  day  no  more  than  four 
times.  One  day  he  went  forth  at  tlie  hour  of  noon 
to  the  shore  of  the  sea,  and  put  down  liis  basket, 
and  cast  his  net,  and  Avaited  until  it  was  motion- 
less in  the  water,  when  he  drew  together  its 
strings  and  found  it  to  be  heavy.  He  pulled,  and 
could  not  draw  it  up;  so  he  took  the  end  of  the 
cord,  and  knocked  a  stake  into  the  shore,  and 
tied  the  cord  to  it.  He  then  stripped  himself,  and 
dived  round  the  net,  and  continued  to  pull  until 
he  drew  it  out;  whereupon  he  rejoiced,  and  put 
on  his  clothes.  But  when  he  came  to  examine 
the  net,  he  found  in  it  the  carcass  of  an  ass.  At 
the  sight  of  this  he  mourned,  and  exclaimed, 
"  There  is  no  strength  nor  power  but  in  God,  the 
High,  the  Great!  This  is  a  strange  piece  of  for- 
tune!"   And  he  repeated  the  following  verse: 

"  O  thou  who  occupiest  thyself  in  the  darkness  of  night 
and  in  peril, 
Spare  thy  trouble,  for  the  support  of  Providence  is  not  ob- 
tained by  toil." 

He  then  disencumbered  his  net  of  the  dead  ass, 
and  Avrungitout;  after  which  he  spread  it  and 
descended  to  the  sea,  and,  exclaiming,  "  In  the 
name  of  God  !"  cast  it  again,  and  waited  until  it 
had  sunk  and  was  still,  when  he  pulled  it,  and 
found  it  more  heavy  and  more  difificult  to  raise 
tlian  on  the  former  occasion.  He  therefore  con- 
cluded tliat  it  was  full  of  fish.  So  he  tied  it,  and 
stripped,  and  plunged  and  dived,  and  pulled,  un- 
til he  raised  it,  and  drew  it  upon  tlie  shore ;  when 
he  found  in  it  oidy  a  large  jar,  full  of  sand  and 
mud;  on  seeing  which,  he  was  troid)led  in  Jiis 
heart,  and  repeated  the  following  words  of  the 
poet : 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  :343 

"  O  angry  fate,  forbear !  or,  if  thou  wilt  not  forbear,  rolont ) 
Neither  favor  nor  fortune  do  I  gain,  nor  ijrofit  from  tlie 

work  of  my  hands. 
I  came  to  seek  my  sustenance,  but  have  found  it  to  be  ex- 
hausted. 
How  many  of  the  ignorant  are  in  splendor;  and  how  many 
of  tlie  wise  in  obscurity!  " 

So  saying,  be  threw  aside  the  jar,  and  'wrung 
out  and  cleansed  his  net;  and,  begging  the  for- 
giveness of  God  for  his  impatience,  returned  to 
tlie  sea  for  the  third  time,  and  threw  the  net,  and 
waited  till  it  had  sunk  and  was  motionless.  He 
then  drew  it  out,  and  found  in  it  a  quantity  of 
broken  jars  and  pots.  Upon  this,  he  raised  his  hand 
toward  heaven,  and  said,  "O  God,  thou  knowest 
that  I  cast  not  my  net  more  than  four  times." 
Then  exclaiming,  "In  the  name  of  God  !"  he  cast 
the  net  into  the  sea,  and  waited  till  it  was  still; 
when  he  attempted  to  draw  it  up,  but  could  not, 
for  it  clung  to  the  bottom.  And  he  exclaimed 
again,  "  There  is  no  power  or  strength  but  in 
God  I"  and  stripped  again,  and  dived  round  the 
net,  and  pulled  it  until  he  raised  it  upon  the 
shore;  when  he  opened  it,  and  found  in  it  a  bottle 
of  brass,  filled  with  something,  and  having  its 
mouth  closed  with  a  stopper  of  lead  bearing  the 
impression  of  the  seal  of  King  Solomon. 

At  the  sight  of  this  the  fisherman  was  rejoiced, 
and  said,  ''  This  will  I  sell  in  the  copper-market; 
for  it  is  worth  ten  pieces  of  gold."  He  then 
shook  it,  and  found  it  to  be  heavy,  and  said, 
"  I  must  open  it,  and  see  v/hat  is  in  it,  and  store 
it  in  my  bag;  and  then  I  will  sell  the  bottle  in  the 
copper-market."  So  he  took  out  a  knife,  and 
picked  at  the  lead  until  he  extracted  it  from  the 
bottle.  He  then  laid  the  bottle  on  the  ground, 
and  shook  it  that  the  contents  might  pour  out. 

But  there  came  forth  from  it  nothing  but 
smoke,  which  ascended  towards  the  sky  and 
spread  over  the  face  of  the  earth;  at  which  he 
wondered  excessively.  And  after  a  little  while 
the  smoke  collected  together,  and  was  condensed, 
and  then  became  agitated,  and  was  converted 
into  an  Afrite,  whose  head  was  in  the  clouds, 
while  his  feet  rested  upon  the  ground.     His  head 


344  THE  ARABIAN  XKillTS. 

was  like  a  dome;  h's  liands  weie  like  winnowing- 
forks,  and  his  lf..r;s  like  masts;  his  mouth  re- 
sembled a  cavoin;  his  teeth  were  like  stones;  his 
nostrils  like  truTfjpots;  his  eyes  like  lamps;  and 
he  had  dishevellod  and  dust-colored  hair. 

"When  the  flsherinan  beheld  this  Afrite,  the 
muscles  of  Lis  sides  quivered,  his  teeth  were 
locked  togeUitf,  his  spittle  dried  up,  and  ho 
saw  not  his  way.  The  Afrite,  as  soon  as  he  per- 
ceived him,  exclaimed,  "There  is  no  Deity  but 
God !  Solomon  is  the  Prophet  of  God !  Slay  me 
not,  for  I  will  never  again  oppose  thee  in  word,  or 
rebel  against  thee  in  deed!  " 

"  O  Afrite,"  said  the  fisherman,  '•  dost  thou  say 
Solomon  is  the  Prophet  of  God?  Solomon  has 
been  dead  a  thousand  and  eight  hundred  years; 
and  we  are  now  in  the  end  of  time.  What  is  thy 
history,  and  what  is  thy  tale,  and  what  was  the 
cause  of  thy  entering  this  bottle  ?  " 

When  the  Afrite  heard  the  vords  of  the  fisher- 
man, he  said,  "  There  is  no  deity  but  God!  lie- 
ceive  news,  O  fisherman." 

"  Of  what,"  said  the  fisherman,  "  dost  thou  give 
me  news?  " 

Pie  answered,  "  Of  thy  being  instaptly  jjut  to  a 
most  cruel  death." 

The  fisherman  exclaimed,  "Thou  dcservest  for 
this  news,  O  master  of  the  Afrites,  the  withdrawal 
of  protection  from  thee,  O  thou  far  off  from  all 
goodness!  Wherefore  wouldst  thou  kill  me  ?  and 
what  requires  thy  killing  me,  when  I  have  liber- 
ated thee  from  this  bottle,  and  rescued  thee  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  brought  tliee  upon  the 
dryland?" 

The  Afrite  answered:  "Choose  what  kind  of 
death  thou  wilt  die,  and  in  what  manner  thou 
Shalt  be  killed." 

"  What  is  my  offence,"  said  the  fisherman, 
"  that  this  should  be  my  recompense  from  thee?  " 

The  Afrite  replied;  "  Hear  my  story,  O  fisher- 
man." 

"Tell  it,  then,"  said  the  fisherman,  "  and  Le 
short  in  thy  words'  for  my  soul  hath  sunk  down 
to  my  feet." 

"  Know  then."  said  he.  "  that  I  am  one   of  the 


THE  AKAIilAN  NKillTS.  -Uo 

heretical  Genii;  I  i-el)elled  against.  Solomon  the 
son  of  David— I  and  Sacar  the  Genii;  and  he  sent 
me  his  Vizier  Asaph,  the  son  of  Barakhia,  who 
came  upon  me  forcibly,  and  took  me  to  him  in 
bonds,  and  placed  me  before  him.  And  when 
Solomon  saw  me,  he  offered  up  a  prayer  for  pro- 
tection against  me,  and  exhorted  me  to  embrace 
the  faith,  and  submit  to  his  authority;  but  I  re- 
fused. Upon  which  he  called  for  this  bottle,  and 
confined  me  in  it,  and  closed  it  upon  me  with 
the  leaden  stopper,  which  he  stamped  with  the 
Most  Great  Name.  He  then  gave  orders  to  the 
Genii,  who  carried  me  away,  and  threw  me  into 
the  midst  of  the  sea.  There  I  remained  a  liun- 
dred  years;  and  I  said  in  my  heart,  '  Whosoever 
shall  liberate  me,  I  will  enrich  him  forever.'  But 
the  hundred  years  passed  over  me,  and  no  one  lib- 
erated me.  And  I  entered  upon  another  hundred 
years;  and  I  said,  'Whosoever  shall  liberate  me,  I 
will  open  to  him  the  treasures  of  the  ^arth , '  but  no 
one  did  so.  And  four  hundred  more  years  passed 
over  me;  and  I  said,  'Whosoever  shall  lilierate 
me,  I  will  perform  for  him  three  wants; '  but  still 
no  one  liberated  me.  I  then  fell  into  a  violent 
rage,  and  said  within  myself,  '  Whosoever  shall 
liberate  me  now,  I  will  kill  him,  and  only  suffer 
him  to  choose  in  what  manner  he  shall  die.'  And 
lo!  now  thou  hast  liberated  me,  and  I  have  given 
thee  the  choice  of  the  manner  in  which  thou  wilt 
die." 

When  the  fisherman  had  heard  the  story  of  the 
Afrite,  he  exclaimed,  "O  Allah!  that  I  should 
not  have  liberated  him  but  in  such  a  time  as 
this! "  Then  said  he  to  the  Afrite,  "  Pardon  me, 
and  kill  me  not ;  and  so  may  God  pardon  thee, 
and  destroy  thee  not;  lest  God  give  power  over 
thee  to  one  who  will  destroy  thee." 

The  Afrite  answered,  "I  must  surely  kill  thee; 
therefore  choose  by  what  manner  of  death  thou 
wilt  die." 

The  fisherman  felt  as.sured  of  his  death;  but  he 
implored  the  Afrite,  saying  "  Pardon  me  by  way 
of  gratitude  for  my  liberating  thee!  " 

"  Wliy,"  answered  the  Afrite,  "  I  am  not  going 


346  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

to  kill  thee  but  for  that  veiy  reason,  because  thou 
hast  liberated  me." 

"  O  Sheikh  of  the  Afrites,"  said  the  fisherman, 
'•  do  I  act  kindly  towards  thee,  and  dost  thou  rec- 
ompense me  with  baseness?  But  the  proverb 
lieth  not  which  saith : 

" '  We  did  good  to  thorn,  and  they  returned  to  us  the  re- 
verse ;  and  such,  by  my  life,  is  the  conduct  of  tlie 
■wiciied. 
Thus  he  who  aeteth  nobly  to  the  undeserving  is  recom- 
pensed in  the  same  manner  as  the  aider  of  the 
hyena.' " 

The  Afrite  when  he  heard  the  words,  answered 
by  sayino^,  "Covet  not  life,  for  thy  death  is  una- 
voidable." 

Then  said  the  fisherman  within  himself,  "  This 
i.s  a  Genii,  and  I  am  a  man;  and  God  hath  given 
me  sound  reason.  Tlierefore  will  I  now  plot  his 
destruction  with  my  heart  and  reason,  like  as  he 
has  plotted  with  his  cunning  and  perfidy."  So  he 
said  to  the  Afrite,  "Hast  thou  determined  to  kill 
me?" — He  answered,  "Yes." — Then  .said  he,  "  By 
the  Mos^  Great  Name  engraved  upon  the  seal  of 
Solomon,  I  will  ask  thee  one  question;  and  wilt 
thou  answer  it  truly?" 

On  hearing,'  the  mention  of  the  Most  Great 
Name,  the  Afrite  was  agitated,  and  trembled, 
and  replied,  "  Yes,  ask,  and  be  brief." — The 
fisherman  then  said,  "  How  wast  thou  in  this  bot- 
tle? It  will  not  contain  thy  hand  or  thy  foot ;  how 
then  can  it  contain  thy  whole  body?"— "Dost 
thou  not  then  believe  that  I  was  in  it?"  said 
the  Afrite.  The  fisherman  answered,  "  I  will 
never  believe  thee  until  I  see  thee  in  it." 

Upon  this,  the  Afrite  shook,  and  became  con- 
verted again  into  smoke,  which  rose  to  the  sky; 
and  then  became  condensed,  and  entered  tlie  bot- 
tle, little  by  little,  until  it  was  all  inclosed,  Avhen 
the  fisherman  hastily  snatched  the  sealed  leaden 
stopper,  and,  having  replaced  it  in  the  mouth  of 
the  bottle,  called  out  to  the  Afrite,  and  said, 
"  Choose  in  what  manner  of  death  thou  wilt  die. 
I  will  assuredly  throw  thee  into  the  sea,  and  will 
build  me  a  house  on  this  spot;  and  whosoever 
shall  come   here,  I  will   say  to  him,  '  Here   is   an 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  347 

Afrite,  wlio  to  any  person  that  liberates  him  will 
propose  various  kinds  of  death,  and  then  give 
him  the  choice  of  one  of  them.'  " 

On  hearing  these  words  of  the  fisherman,  the 
Afrite  endeavored  to  escape ;  but  could  not,  lind- 
ing  himself  restrained  by  the  impression  of  the 
seal  of  Solomon,  and  thus  imprisoned  by  the 
fisherman  as  the  vilest  and  least  of  the  Afrites. 
The  fisherman  then  took  the  bottle  to  the  brink 
of  the  sea.  The  Afrite  exclaimed,  ^' Nay!  nay!" 
to  which  the  fisherman  answered,  "  Yea,  without 
fail!    Yea,  without  fail!" 

The  Afrite  then,  addressing  him  with  a  soft 
voice  and  humble  manner,  said,  "  What  dost  thou 
intend  to  do  with  me,  O  fisherman?  "—Ho  an- 
swered, "  I  will  throw  thee  into  the  sea,  and  if 
thou  hast  been  there  a  thousand  and  eight  huu' 
dred  years,  I  will  make  thee  to  remain  there  until 
the  Hour  of  Judgment.  Did  I  not  say  to  thee, 
'  Spare  me,  and  so  may  God  spare  thee ;  and 
destroy  me  not  lest  God  destroy  thee  ? '  But  thou 
didst  reject  my  petition,  and  wouldst  nothing 
but  treachery;  therefore  God  hath  caused  thee  to 
fall  into  my  hand,  and  I  have  betrayed  thee."— 
"  Open  to  me,"  said  the  Afrite,  "  that  I  may  con- 
fer benefits  upon  thee."— -The  fisherman  replied, 
"Thou  liest,  thou  accursed!  I  and  thou  art  like 
the  Grecian  King  and  the  sage  Douban."— 
"What,"  said  the  Afrite,  "was  the  case  of  the 
Grecian  King  and  the  sage  Douban,  and  what 
is  their  story?" 

The  fisherman  then  relates  the  storj-  in 
question.  It  is  long,  and  embodies  several 
minor  ones.  The  general  purport  of  the 
whole  being  that  the  King,  who  had  been 
cured  of  leprosy  by  Douban,  raises  him  to 
high  honor.  The  Vizier,  inllamed  by  envy, 
excites  the  King  to  put  the  Sage  to  death, 
since  the  same  power  which  had  enabled  the 
sage  to  heal  the  King  would  also  enable  him 
to  take  his  life.  Said  the  King  to  the  Sage, 
"  1  shall  not  be  secui^e  unless  I  kill  thee;  for 
thou  curedst  me  by  a  thing  that  I  held  in  my 


318  THE  AllABlAX  NIGHTS. 

hand,  and  I  have  no  security  against  thy 
kilHng  nie  by  a  thing  that  I  may  smell  or  by 
some  other  means."  Douban  remonstrated 
in  vain;  but  finding  that  his  depvth  was  fully 
resolved  upon,  he  prevailed  upon  the  King  to 
grant  him  a  brief  resi^ite,  promising  to  give 
him  a  certain  magical  book,  among  the  least 
of  whose  virtues  was  that — "When  thou 
hast  cut  off  my  head,  if  thou  open  this  book, 
and  count  three  leaves,  and  then  read  three 
lines  to  the  left,  the  head  will  speak  to  thee, 
and  answer  wdiatever  thou  shalt  ask."  The 
sequel  of  this  story  is  thus  related : — 

On  the  appointed  day  the  Sage  went  up  to  the 
court;  and  the  Emirs  and  the  Viziers,  and  Cham- 
berlains, and  Deputies,  and  all  the  great  officers  of 
the  state,  went  thither  also:  and  the  court  resem- 
bled a  flower-garden.  And  when  the  Sage  had 
entered,  he  i:)resented  himself  before  the  King, 
bearing  an  old  book  and  a  small  pot  containing  a 
powder.  And  he  sat  down  and  said,  "  Bring  me  a 
tray.-'  So  they  brought  him  one;  and  he  poured 
out  the  powder  into  it,  and  spread  it.  He  then 
said,  ''  O  King,  take  this  book,  and  do  nothing 
with  it  until  thou  hast  cut  off  my  head;  and  when 
thou  hast  done  so,  place  it  upon  this  tray,  and 
order  some  one  to  press  it  down  upon  the  powder; 
and  when  this  is  done,  the  blood  will  be  stanched: 
then  open  the  book." 

As  soon  as  the  Sage  had  said  this,  the  King  gave 
orders  to  strike  off  his  head;  and  it  was  done. 
The  King  then  opened  the  book,  and  found  that 
its  leaves  stuck  togeth&r;  so  he  put  his  finger  to 
his  mouth,  and  moistened  it  with  his  spittle,  and 
Oldened  the  first  leaf,  and  the  second,  and  the 
third;  but  the  leaves  were  not  opened  without 
difficulty.  He  opened  six  leaves,  and  looked  at 
them;  but  found  upon  them  no  writing.  So  he 
said,  "'O  Sage,  there  is  nothing  Avritten  in  it." — 
The  head  of  the  Sage  answered,  "  Turn  over  more 
leaves."  The  King  did  so;  and  in  a  little  while 
fche  poison  penetrated  his  system;  for  the  look 
was  poisoned:  and  the   King  f;?ll  hack,  and  cried 


THE  ai;ai;iax  nicihts.  349 

out,  "  The  poison  hath  penetrated  into  me!" 
And  upon  this  the  head  of  the  sage  Doub an  re- 
peated these  verses : — 

"  They  made  use  of  their  power  and  used  it  tyraunically,  and 

soon  it  became  as  though  it  never  had  existed. 
Had  they  acted  equitably,  they  had  experienced  equity;  but 

tliey   oppressed;  wherefore    fortune    oppressed  them 

with  calamities  and  trials. 
Then  did  the  case  announce  itself  to  them:— 'This  is  the 

reward  of  your  conduct,  and  fortune  is  blameless.'  " 

And  when  the  head  of  the  sage  Douban  had 
uttered  these  words,  the  King  immediately  fell 
down  dead. 

"Now,  O  Afrite,"  continued  the  fisherman, 
"  know  that  if  the  Grecian  King  liad  spared  the 
sage  Douban,  God  had  spared  him.  But  he  re- 
fused, und  desired  his  destruction;  therefore  God 
destroyed  him.  And  thou,  O  Afrite,  if  thou 
hadst  spared  me,  God  liad  spared  thee,  and  I  liad 
spared  thee.  But  thou  desiredst  my  death ;  there- 
fore will  I  put  thee  to  death  imprisoned  in  this 
bottle;  and  will  throw  thee  here  into  the  sea." 

The  Afrite  upon  this  cried  out  and  said,  "I 
conjure  thee  by  Allah,  O  fisherman,  that  thou  do 
it  not.  Spare  me  in  generosity,  and  le  not  angry 
with  me  for  what  I  did ;  but  if  I  have  done  evil, 
do  thou  good,  according  to  the  proverb—'  O  thou 
benefactor  of  him  who  hath  done  evil,  the  action 
that  he  hath  done  is  sufficient  for  him.'— Do  not 
therefore  as  Imana  did  to  Ateca."— "  And  what," 
said  the  fisherman,  "  was  their  case  ?  "—The  Afrite 
answered,  "  This  is  not  a  time  for  telling  stories, 
when  I  am  in  this  prison ;  but  when  thou  liberat- 
est  me,  I  will  relate  to  thee  their  case." 

The  fisherman  said,  "Thou  must  be  thrown 
into  the  sea,  and  there  shall  be  no  way  of  escape 
for  thee  from  it;  for  I  endeavored  to  propitiate 
thee,  and  humbled  myself  before  thee,  yet  thou 
Avouldst  nothing  but  my  destruction,  though  I 
had  committed  no  offence  to  deserve  it,  and  had 
done  no  evil  to  thee  whatever,  but  only  good, 
delivering  thee  from  thy  confinement.  And  when 
thou  didst  thus  unto  me,  I  perceived  that  thou 
wast  radieallv  corrupt;  and  I  would  have  thee 
t.)  know  that  mv  native  for  throwing  thee  into 


350  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

the  sea  is  that  I  may  acquaint  with  thy  story 
every  one  that  sliall  take  tliee  out,  and  caution 
him  against  tliee,  that  he  may  cast  tliee  in  again. 
Tlius  slialt  tliou  remain  in  tliis  sea  to  tlie  end 
of  time,  and  experience  varieties  of  torment." 

The  Afrite  then  said,  "  Liberate  me,  for  this 
is  an  opportunity  for  thee  to  display  humanity. 
And  I  vow  to  thee  that  I  will  never  do  thee  harm ; 
but  on  the  contrary,  will  do  thee  a  service  which 
shall  enrich  thee  forever." 

Upon  this  the  fisherman  accepted  the  covenant 
that  he  would  not  liurt  him,  but  that  he  would 
do  him  good;  and  when  he  had  bound  him  by 
oaths  and  vows,  and  made  him  swear  by  the 
Most  Great  Name  of  God,  he  oi^ened  to  him;  and 
the  smoke  ascended  until  it  had  all  come  forth, 
and  then  collected  together,  and  became,  as 
before,  an  Afrite  of  liideous  form.  The  Afrite 
then  kicked  the  bottle  into  the  sea. 

When  tlie  lisherman  saw  him  do  this  he  made 
sure  of  destruction,  and  said,  "  This  is  no  sign  of 
good;"  but  afterwards  he  fortified  his  heart,  and 
said,  "O  Afrite!  God,  whose  name  be  exalted, 
hath  said,  'Perfoi'm  the  covenant;  for  the  cove- 
nant shall  be  inquired  into : '  and  thou  hast  cove- 
nanted with  me,  and  sworn  that  thou  wilt  not  act 
treacherously  towards  me.  Therefore,  if  thou  so 
act,  God  will  recompense  thee:  for  He  is  jealous; 
He  respiteth,  but  suffereth  not  to  escape.  And 
remember  that  I  said  to  thee,  as  said  the  sage 
Douban  to  the  Grecian  King,  '  Spare  me,  and  so 
may  God  spare  thee.'  " 

The  Afrite  laughed,  and,  walking  on  before  him 
said,  "  O  lisherman,  follow  me."  The  fisherman 
did  so,  not  believing  in  his  escape,  until  they  had 
quitted  the  neighborhood  of  the  city,  and  as- 
cended a  mountain,  and  descended  into  a  wide 
desert  tract,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a  lake  of 
water.  Here  the  Afrite  stopped,  and  ordered  the 
fisherman  to  cast  his  net,  and  take  some  fish. 
And  tlie  fisherman,  looking  into  the  lake,  saw  in 
it  fish  of  different  colors — white  and  red,  and 
blue,  and  yellow;  at  which  he  was  astonished. 
And  he  cast  his  net,  and  drew  it  in,  and  found  in 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  351 

it  four  fish,  cacli  fisli  of  a  diffcront  color  from  tlic 
others;  at  tlie  sight  of  which  he  rejoiced. 

The  Afrite  then  said  to  liini,  "  Take  tlicm  to  the 
Sultan,  and  present  them  to  him,  and  he  will  give 
thee  what  will  enrich  thee.  And,  for  the  sake  of 
God,  accept  my  excuse,  for  at  present  I  know  no 
other  way  of  rewarding  thee,  having  been  in  the 
sea  a  thousand  and  eight  hundred  years,  and  not 
having  seen  the  surface  of  the  earth  until  now; 
but  take  not  fish  from  the  lake  more  than  once 
each  day.  And  now  I  commend  thee  to  the  care 
.of  God." — Having  thus  said,  he  struck  the  earth 
with  his  foot  and  it  clove  asunder,  and  swallowed 
him. 

The  fisherman  carried  the  four  fish  to  the 
Sultan ;  but  it  was  found  impossible  to  cook 
them;  no  sooner  w^ere  they  placed  in  the 
frying-pan  than  a  spirit  aj^peared  and  over- 
tvirned  the.  pan.  This  was  repeated  several 
times;  and  at  length  the  Sultan  resolved  to 
fathom  the  mystery.  As  it  appears  in  the 
sequel,  this  lake  was  in  the  centre  of  an 
enchanted  region,  the  inhabitants  of  which 
had  been  transformed — the  Mohammedans 
into  -white,  the  Magians  into  red,  the  Chris- 
tians into  blue,  and  the  Jews  into  yellow 
fishes.  The  Sultan  advanced  a  couple  of 
days'  journey,  and  came  upon  a  seemingly 
deserted  palace,  from  which  a  low  voice  of 
lamentation  was  heard.  He  entered,  and 
found  lying  upon  a  couch  a  young  man,  all 
of  whose  body  from  the  waist  down,  had 
been  turned  to  stone.  He  told  the  story  of 
his  misfortune.  Ho  was  the  Prince  of  the 
Black  Islands  and  the  Four  Mountains.  His 
wife,  who  was  a  potent  enchantress,  had 
become  enraged  with  him,  because  he  had 
detected  her  infidelities,  and  had  not  only 
thus  afflicted  him,  but  had  transformed  his 
kingdom  into  a  lake,  and  all  his  subjects  into 
fishes.     The  Sultan   contrived  to  induce  the 


:]52  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

enchantress  to  dissolve  all  her  spells ;  so  that 
the  Prince  was  restored  to  his  natural  form, 
the  lake  became  a  city  again,  and  the  fishes 
men,  as  they  had  been.  He  then  killed  the 
enchantress  with  his  own  hand.  After 
which  he  asked  of  the  restored  Prince, 
whether  he  would  go  with  him  to  his  capital, 
or  remain  there  in  his  own  city. 

"OKiug  of  the  age,"  said  the  Prince,  "dost 
tliou  know  the  distance  that  is  between  thee  and 
thy  city?" — "Two  days  and  a  half,"  answered 
the  Sultan. — "  O  King,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"if  thou  hast  been  asleep,  awake:  between  thee 
and  thy  city  is  a  distance  of  a  year's  journey  to 
him  who  travelleth  with  diligence;  and  thou 
earnest  in  two  days  and  a  half  only  because  the 
city  was  enchanted.  But,  O  King,  I  will  never 
leave  thee  for  the  twinkling  of  an  eye."  The 
King  rejoiced  at  his  words,  and  said,  "Praise  be 
to  God,  who  hath  in  his  l)eucficence  given  thee  to 
me :  thou  art  my  son ;  f ov  during  my  whole  life  I 
have  never  been  bless-od  with  a  son;"  and  they 
embraced  each  other  and  rejoiced  exceedingly. 
They  then  went  together  into  the  palace,  where 
the  Prince  who  had  been  enchanted  informed  the 
officers  of  his  court  that  he  was  about  to  perform 
the  holy  pilgrimage.  So  they  prepared  for  him 
everything  that  he  retiuired;  and  he  departed 
with  the  Sultan,  accompanied  by  lifty  mem- 
looks. 

They  continued  their  journey  night  and  day  for 
awlioleyear;  after  which  tliey  drew  near  to  the 
city  of  the  Sultan.  And  the  Vizier  and  the  troops, 
wlu)  had  lost  all  hope  of  his  return,  came  forth  to 
meet  him.  The  troops  approaching  him  kissed 
the  ground  l;efore  him  and  congratulated  him  on 
his  safe  return;  and  he  entered  the  city,  and  sat 
upon  the  throne.  He  then  acquainted  the  Vizier 
with  all  that  had  happened  to  the  young  Prince; 
on  liearing  which  the  Vizier  congratulated  the 
latter,  also,  on  his  safety.  And  Avhen  all  things 
were  restored  to  order,  the  Sultan  bestowed  pres- 
ents upon  a  number  of  liis  subjects,  and  said  to 


FllANCES  D'ARBLAY.  353 

the  Vizier,  "Bring  to  me  the  fisherman  who  pre- 
sented to  me  the  fish." 

So  he  sent  to  this  fisherman,  who  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  restoration  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
enchanted  city,  and  brought  him.  And  the  King 
invested  him  with  a  robe  of  honor,  and  inquired 
of  liim  respecting  his  circumstances,  and  whether 
he  had  any  children.  The  fisherman  informed 
him  that  he  had  a  son  and  two  daughters.  And 
tlie  King,  on  hearing  this,  took  as  liis  wife  one  of 
the  daughters;  and  the  young  Prince  married  the 
other.  The  King  also  conferred  upon  the  son 
the  office  of  treasurer.  He  then  sent  the  Vizier 
to  the  city  of  the  young  Prince,  the  capital  of  the 
Black  Islands,  and  invested  him  with  its  sover- 
eignty; despatching  with  him  the  fifty  memlooks 
who  had  accompanied  him  thence,  with  numerous 
robes  of  honor  to  all  the  Emirs.  And  the  Vizier 
kissed  his  hands,  and  set  forth  on  his  journey; 
vvhile  the  Sultan  and  the  young  Prince  remained. 
And  as  to  the  fisherman,  he  became  the  wealth- 
iest of  the  people  of  his  age;  and  his  daughters 
continued  to  be  the  wives  of  the  Kings  until  they 
died. 

Scheherazade  had  begun  this  story  in  the 
middle  of  the  third  night.  She  concluded  it 
at  the  middle  of  the  ninth  night;  adding, 
"But  this  is  not  more  wonderful  than  what 
happened  to  the  porter."  At  Shahriar^s  re- 
quest, she  then  launched  out  into  this  new 
story,  which  was  kept  up  until  the  middle  of 
the  "eighteenth  night,  and  so  on,  for  a  Thou- 
sand Nights  and  One. 

ARBLAY,  Frances  d'  (Burney),  an  English 
novelist,  born  at  Lynn  Regis,  Norfolkshire, 
June  13,  1752,  died  at  Bath,  in  Jan.,  1840. 
Her  father,  Charles  Burney,  was  a  dis- 
tinguished musician  and  author  of  an  es- 
teemed History  of  Music.  In  1760  he  took  up 
his  residence  in  London,  where  he  was  intro- 
duced into  the  best  literary  and  artistic  soci- 
ety of  the  day.  Among  those  who  were  inti- 
■    28 


354  FRANCES  D'AEBLAY. 

mate  with  the  Burney  family  were  Sam. 
Johnson,  David  Garrick,  and  Edmund  Burke. 
James  Burney,  the  eldest  son,  entered  the 
British  navy;  accompanied  Cook  on  two  of 
his  long  voyages,  of  which  he  wrote  narra- 
tives, one  of  them  extending  to  five  quarto 
volumes.  He  died  in  1820,  having  attained 
the  rank  of  Rear  Admiral.  The  second  soU; 
named  Charles,  after  his  father,  entered 
the  Church,  became  one  of  the  King's  Chap- 
lains, and  Prebendary  of  Lincoln.  He  was 
an  eminent  Greek  scholar,  and  wrote  several 
essays  upon  the  Greek  classics.  He  died  in 
1817,  and  his  valuable  Ubrary  was  purchased 
by  Government  for  the  British  Museum. 
Two  of  the  daughters  of  the  elder  Charles 
Burney  are  known  in  literatui-e.  Sarah  Har- 
riet Burney,  the  younger  of  the  sisters,  wrote 
the  novels,  Geraldine  Faaconberg ;  The 
Wanderer;  The  Shipwreck;  Tales  of  the 
Fancy ;  and  Traits  of  Nature,  all  of  which 
had  some  reputation  in  their  day,  though 
now  as  good  as  forgotten. 

Frances  (commonly  known  as  Fanny)  Bur- 
ney was  left  to  grow  up  much  in  her  own 
way.  It  is  said  that  at  the  age  of  eight  she 
did  not  even  know  the  letters  of  the  alphabet, 
but  at  fifteen  she  had  written  several  tales, 
without  the  knovdedge  of  any  one  except  one 
of  her  sisters.  Her  first  novel,  Evelina,  is 
said  to  have  been  written  Avhile  she  was  in 
her  teens ;  but  was  not  published  until  1778, 
when  she  had  entered  her  twenty-sixth  year. 
It  was  put  forth  anonymously,  but  at  once 
attracted  public  attention.  This  was  fol- 
lowed, in  1782,  by  Cecilia,  which  fully  sus- 
tained her  reputation.  It  was  ' '  moi'e  finished 
than  Evelina,  but  less  rich  in  comic  charac- 
ters and  dialogue."  Soon  after  this  she  be- 
came accjuainted  with  Mrs.  Delany,  a  vener- 
able lady  of  high  culture  who  had  formerly 


FKANCES  D'ARBLAT.  355 

bolont^od  to  the  Court,  and  was  now  <^n  inti- 
mate terms  with  King  George  III.  and  the 
pompous  but  well-meaning  Queen  Charlotte, 
upon  whom  Frances  made  so  favorable  an 
impression  that  she  was  offered  the  position 
of  Second  Keeper  of  the  Robes  to  the  Queen, 
with  a  salary  of  £200  a  year;  and  some  per- 
quisites. This  position  at  Court,  apparently 
so  desirable,  was  nothing  more  than  a  splen- 
did slavery.  Macaulay,  in  one  of  his  latest 
Essays,  thus  depicts  it : 

FRANCES  BURXEY  AT  COURT. 

A  German  lady  of  the  name  of  Hagerdorii,  one 
of  the  keepers  of  the  Queen's  Kolses,  retired  about 
this  time,  and  her  Majesty  offered  the  vacant  post 
to  ]Miss  Barney.  When  we  consider  that  Frances 
Burncy  was  decidedly  the  most  popular  writer  of 
fictitious  narrative  then  living,  that  competence 
if  not  opulence  was  within  her  reach,  and  that  she 
was  more  than  usually  happy  in  her  domestic  cir- 
cle, and  when  we  compare  the  sacrifice  which  she 
was  invited  to  make  with  the  compensation  which 
was  held  out  to  her,  we  are  divided  between  laugh- 
ter and  indignation 

What  was  demanded  of  her  was  that  she  should 
consent  to  be  almost  as  completely  separated  from 
her  family  and  friends  as  if  she  had  gone  to  Cal- 
cutta, and  almost  as  close  a  prisoner  as  if  she  had 
been  sent  to  jail  for  a  libel;  that  with  talents 
which  had  instructed  and  delighted  the  highest 
living  minds,  she  should  be  summoned  l)y  a  wait- 
ing-woman's bell  to  a  waiting-woman's  duties; 
that  she  should  pass  her  whole  life  under  the  re- 
straints of  a  paltry  etiquette,  should  sometimes 
fast  till  she  was  ready  to  swoon  with  hunger, 
should  sometimes  stand  still  till  her  knees  gave 
way  with  fatigue;  that  she  should  not  dare  to 
speak  or  move  without  considering  how  her  mis- 
tress might  like  her  words  and  gestures.  Instead 
of  those  distinguished  men  and  women,  the  flower 
of  all  political  parties,  with  whom  she  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  mixing  on  terms  of  equal  friendship, 
she  was  to  have  for  her  perpetual  companion  the 


S.-jU  FKANCES  D'ARBLAY. 

Chief  Keeper  of  the  liobes,  an  old  hag  from  Ger 
uiauy,  of  mean  uiulerstaudiug,  of  insolent  man- 
ners, and  of  temper  which,  naturally  savage,  had 
now  been  exasperated  by  disease.  Now  and  then, 
indeed,  poor  Frances  might  console  herself  for  the 
loss  of  Burke  and  Windham's  society,  by  joining 
in  the  "  celestial  colloquy  sublime  "'  of  His  Majes- 
ty's Equeri-ies. 

And  what  was  the  consideration  for  which  she 
was  to  sell  herself  to  this  slavery  ?  A  peerage  in 
her  own  right  ?  A  pension  of  £2000  a  year  for 
life  ?  A  seventy-four  for  her  brother  in  the  Navy? 
A  deanery  for  her  brother  in  the  church  '?  Not  so. 
The  price  at  which  she  was  valued  was  her  board, 
her  lodging,  the  attendance  of  a  man-servant,  and 
£200  a  year.  It  was  evidently  understood  as  one 
of  the  terms  of  her  engagement,  that,  while  she 
Avas  a  member  of  the  Koyal  Household,  she  was 
not  to  appear  before  the  pul)lic  as  an  author;  and 
even  had  there  been  no  such  understanding,  her 
avocations  were  such  as  left  her  no  leisure  for  any 
considerable  intellectual  effort.  That  her  place 
was  incompatible  Vvith  her  literary  pursuits  was 
indeed  frankly  acknowledged  by  the  King  when 
she  resigned.  '".She  has  given  up,"  he  said,  '"five 
years  of  her  pen."  That  during  those  five  years 
she  might,  without  painful  exertions — without 
any  exertion  that  would  not  have  been  a  pleasure 
— have  earned  enough  to  buy  an  annuity  for  life 
much  larger  than  the  precarious  salary  which 
she  received  at  Court,  is  quite  certain.  We  can- 
not venture  to  speak  confidently  of  the  price  of 
millinery  and  jewellery;  but  we  are  greatly  de- 
ceived if  a  lady  who  nad  to  attend  Queen  Charlotte 
on  many  public  occasions,  could  possil)ly  save  a 
farthing  out  of  £203  a  year.  The  principle  of 
the  arrangement  was,  in  short,  simply  this:  That 
Frances  Bumey  should  become  a  slave,  and 
should  be  rewarded  by  being  made  a  beggar. 

With  Avhat  object  their  Majesties  brought  her 
to  their  palace,  we  must  own  oui'selves  unable 
to  conceive.  Their  object  could  not  be  to  encour- 
age her  literary  exertions;  for  they  took  her  from 
a  situation  in  which  it  was  almost  certain  that 
she  would  write,  and  put  her  into  a  situation  in 


FRANCES  D'ARBLAY.  357 

which  it  was  ahiiost  impossible  for  her  to  write. 
Their  object  could  not  be  to  promote  her  pecu- 
niary interest;  for  they  took  her  from  a  situation 
where  she  was  likely  to  become  rich,  and  put  her 
into  a  situation  in  which  she  could  not  but  con- 
tinue poor.  Their  object  could  not  be  to  obtain 
an  eminently  useful  waithag-maid ;  for  although 
Frances  Buruey  was  the  only  woman  of  her  time 
who  could  have  described  the  death  of  Harrel, 
thousands  might  have  been  found  more  expert  in 
tying  ribbons  and  in  fining  snuff-boxes.  To 
grant  her  a  pension  on  the  Civil  List  would  have 
been  an  act  of  judicious  liberality  honorable  to 
the  Court.  If  this  was  impracticable,  the  best 
thing  was  to  let  her  alone. 

That  the  King  and  the  Queen  meant  her  nothing 
but  kindness,  we  do  not  in  the  least  doubt.  But 
their  kindness  was  the  kindness  of  persons  raised 
high  above  the  mass  of  mankind;  accustomed  to 
be"  addressed  with  profound  deference,  accus- 
tomed to  see  all  who  approached  them  mortified 
by  their  coldness,  and  elated  by  their  smiles. 
Thoy  fancied  that  to  be  noticed  by  them,  to  be 
near  them,  to  serve  them,  was  in  itself  a  kind  of 
happiness;  and  that  Frances  Burney  ought  to  be 
full  of  gratitude  for  being  permitted  to  purchase, 
by  the  sacrifice  of  health,  wealth,  freedom,  domes- 
tic affection,  and  hterary  fame,  the  privilege  of 
standing  behind  a  Royal  chair,  and  holding  a  pair 
of  Royal  gloves.  And  who  can  blame  them  '? 
What  wonder  that  Princes  should  be  under  such  a 
delusion,  when  they  are  encouraged  in  it  by  the 
very  persons  who  suffer  from  it  most  cruelly  ? 
Was  it  to  be  expected  that  George  III.  and  Queen 
Charlotte  should  understand  the  interest  of 
Frances  Burney  better,  or  promote  it  with  more 
zeal  than  herself  and  her  father  ?  No  deception 
was  practised.  The  conditions  of  the  House  of 
Bondage  were  set  forth  with  all  simplicity.  The 
hook  was  presented  without  a  liait;  the  net  was 
spread  in  sight  of  the  bird ;  and  the  naked  hook 
was  greedily  swallowed,  and  the  silly  bird  made 
haste  to  entangle  herself  in  the  net.— Macaulay, 
upon  Madame  D'Arblai/. 


358  FKANCES  D'ARBLAY. 

Frances  Burnoy  endured  this  miserable  life 
of  splendid  slavery  for  five  years.  All  her 
friends  saw  that  it  was  killing  her;  had,  in- 
deed, well-nigh  killed  her.  It  was  at  length 
resolved  upon  that  she  should  resign  her 
situation  at  Court.  She  could  hardly,  al- 
though her  life  was  at  stake,  muster  courage 
enough  for  the  terrible  task.  "  I  could  not," 
she  wrote  in  her  Diary,  ' '  summon  courage  to 
present  my  memorial ;  my  heart  always  failed 
me  from  seeing  the  Queen's  entire  freedom 
from  such  an  expectation.  For  though  I  was 
frequently  so  ill  in  her  presence  that  I  could 
hardly  stand,  I  saw  she  concluded  me— while 
life  remained — inevitably  hers."  But  the  let- 
ter of  resignation  Avas  at  length  presented; 
and  then  there  was  an  uproar  in  the  Royal 
circle  which  Frances  Burney  has  well  de- 
scribed: "Madame  Schwellenberg,  the  First 
Keeper  of  the  Robes,"  she  writes,  "was  too 
much  enraged  for  disguise,  and  uttered  the 
most  furious  expressions  of  indignant  con- 
tempt at  the  proceedings  of  my  father  and  my- 
self. I  am  sure  she  would  gladly  have  con- 
fined us  both  in  the  Bastile,  had  England  such 
a  misery,  as  a  fit  place  to  bring  us  to  ourselves, 
from  a  daring  so  outrageous  against  Imperial 
Avishes." — It  Avas  finally  promised  that,  after 
the  next  birthday — a  fortnight  hence — poor 
Frances  should  be  released  from  her  attend- 
ance upon  the  Royal  person. 

KESIGXIXG    FKOM   COURT. 

'■  I  heard  this  with  a  fearful  presentiment  that 
I  should  surely  never  go  through  another  fort- 
night, in  so  Aveak  and  languishing  and  painful  a 
state  of  health.  ...  As  the  time  of  separation 
approached,  the  Queen's  cordiality  rather  dimin- 
ished, and  traces  of  internal  displeasure  appeared 
sometimes,  arising  from  an  opinion  I  ought  rather 
to  have  struggled  on,  live  or  die,  than  to  quit  her. 
Yet   I   am   sure  she  saw  how  poor  was  my  own 


FEANCES  U'AKBLAY.  359 

chance,  except  by  a  change  in  the  mode  of  hfe, 
and  at  least  ceased  to  wonder  though  she  could 
not  apijrove." — Diary  of  Madame  B'Arbluy. 

"Sweet  Queen,"  exclaims  Macaiilay,  iron- 
ically, "what  noble  candor  to  admit  that  the 
undutif Illness  of  people,  Avho  did  not  think 
the  honor  of  adjusting  her  tuckei"S  worth  the 
sacrifice  of  their  own  lives,  was,  though 
criminal,  not  altogether  unnatural !  " — King 
George  III. ,  with  all  his  pig-headedness,  was, 
after  his  fashion,  a  rather  decent  sort  of  man ; 
and  he  declared  that  poor  Frances  Burney 
ought  to  have  some  provision  made  for  her, 
and  so  a  pension  of  £100  a  year  was  granted 
to  her,  dependent,  however,  upon  the  good 
pleasure  of  the  somewhat  irate  Queen  Char- 
lotte. 

So  Frances  Burney,  at  the  age  of  nearly 
forty,  went  home  again.  England  was  at  this 
time  (1791)  swarming  with  French  refugees, 
driven  away  by  the  Great  Eevolution. 
Among  these  was  a  certain  Count  D'Arblay, 
to  whom  Frances  Burney  was  married  in 
1793.  She  soon  resumed  the  use  of  her  pen, 
and  in  1795  produced  a  tragedy,  Edivin  and 
Elgitha,  which  seems  to  have  excited  more 
laughter  than  tears,  although  the  part  of  the 
heroine  was  played  by  Mrs.  Siddons.  Her 
next  literary  venture,  the  novel  Camilla,  was 
a,  successful  one,  in  so  far  that,  being  pub- 
lished by  subscription,  it  brought  her  3000 
guineas — a  greater  sum,  it  is  said,  than  had 
ever  before  been  realized  by  the  author  of  a 
novel.  Upon  the  accession  of  Napoleon  to 
the  rule  of  France,  Madame  D'Arblay,  as  she 
must  now  be  named,  accompanied  her  hus- 
band to  France,  where  they  resided  for  about 
ten  years.  She  then  returned  to  England,  and 
with  the  proceeds  of.  her  last  novel,  bought  a 
pleasant  little  villa,  which  she  named  "Ca- 
milla Lodge."    She  again  tried  her  hand  at 


360  FRANCES  D'AfiBLAY. 

aiitiiorship,  and  in  1814  produced  The  Wan- 
derer, a  long  novel  which  brought  her  £1500. 
Her  husband  died  not  long  after,  and  subse- 
quently her  only  son,  who  seems  to  have 
been  a  young  man  of  decdded  promise.  In 
1832  she  wrote  a  Memoir  of  her  father,  which 
^vas  her  last  work,  for  her  Diary  and  Letters 
Avhich  were  issued  in  1842,  were  written  long 
before,  and  come  down  only  to  about  the 
time  of  her  marriage  in  1793. 

The  fame  of  Frances  Burney  rests  wholly 
upon  her  two  comi3aratively  early  novels, 
Evelina  and  Cecilia,  and  that  fame  has  hardly 
outlived  her  generation.  "In  them,"  says 
one  critic,  "  we  see  her  quick  in  discernment, 
lively  in  invention,  and  inimitable  in  her  own 
way  in  poi'traying  the  hiunors  and  oddities 
of  English  Society.  She  deals  with  the  pal- 
pable and  familiar;  and  there  is  enough  of 
real  life  in  her  personages  to  interest,  auuise, 
and  instruct.  Her  sarcasm,  drollery,  and 
broad  hiunor  must  always  be  i-elished."  Ma- 
caulay,  on  the  other  hand,  treats  her  rather 
slightingly: 

"  Her  reputation,"  he  says,  "  rests  on  wliat  slie 
did  duiinfj  tlie  earlier  lialf  of  her  life,  and  every- 
thing which  she  published  during  the  forty-three 
years  which  preceded  her  death,  lowered  her  repu- 
tation. Yet  Ave  have  no  reason  to  think  that  a.t  the 
time  when  her  faculties  ought  to  have  been  in 
their  maturity,  they  were  smitten  by  any  sudden 
blight.  In  The  Wanderer  we  catch  now  and  then 
a  gleam  of  genius.  Even  in  the  Memoirs  of  her 
father  there  is  no  trace  of  dotage.  They  are  very 
bad;  but  tliey  are  so,  as  it  seems  to  us,  not  from 
a  decay  of  power,  but  from  a  total  perversion  of 
power.  The  truth  is,  that  Madame  D'Arblay's 
style  underwent  a  most  pernicious  change.  AVhen 
she  wrote  her  first  novel,  licr  style  was  not  indeed 
brilliant  or  energetic;  but  it  was  easy,  clear,  and 
free  from  all  offensive  faults.  When  she  wrote 
Cerilia,  she   aimed   higher.     She  had  then   lived 


FKANCES  D'ARBLAY.  361 

much  in  a  circle  of  which  Johnson  Avas  the  centre; 
and  she  was  one  of  his  most  submissive  worship- 
pers. It  seems  never  to  have  crossed  her  mind 
that  the  style  even  of  his  best  writings  was  by  no 
means  faultless;  and  that  even  if  it  had  been 
faultless,  it  might  not  be  vvise  in  her  to  imitate 
it.  In  an  evil  hour  the  author  of  Ecelina  took  the 
Rambler  for  her  model.  This  would  not  have 
been  wise  even  if  she  could  have  imitated  her 
pattern  as  well  as  Hawkcswortli  did.  But  such 
imitation  was  beyond  her  power.  She  had  her 
own  style.  It  was  a  comparatively  good  one,  and 
might,  without  any  violent  change,  have  been 
improved  into  a  very  good  one.  She  determined 
to  throw  it  away,  and  to  adopt  a  style  in  whicli 
she  could  attain  excellence  only  by  achieving  an 
almost  miraculous  victory  over  nature  and  over 
habit.  She  could  cease  to  be  Fanny  Burney;  it 
was  not  so  easy  to  become  Samuel  Johnson." 

Macaulay  goes  on  to  quote  several  passages 
A.'hich  he  presents  as  examples  of  Madame 
D'Arblay's  style  at  three  periods  of  her  hfe. 
"She  had  carried,"  he  says,  "a  bad  style  to 
France.  She  bi'ought  back  a  style  which  we 
are  really  at  a  loss  to  describe.  It  is  a  sort 
of  broken  Johnsonese,  a  barbarous  patois, 
bearing  the  same  relation  to  the  language  of 
Rasselos,  which  the  gibberish  of  the  Negroes 
of  Jamaica  bears  to  the  English  of  the  House 
of  Lords.  It  matters  not  what  ideas  are 
clothed  in  such  a  style.  The  genius  of 
Shakespeare  and  Bacon  united  would  not 
save  a  work  so  written  from  general  de- 
rision." 

In  her  Diary  Frances  Burney  tells  George 
III.  the  circumstances  attending  the  compo- 
sition of  Evelina.  The  conversation  took 
place  just  before  she  entered  the  Eoyal 
household,  as  Second  Keeper  of  Her  Maj- 
esty's Robes: 


3G2  FIIANCE.S  D'AliBLAY. 

GEOKGE  III.  AND   FKANCES   BTJBNEY. 

The  King  went  up  to  the  table,  and  kicked  at  a 
book  of  prints  wliicli  had  been  brought  down  for 
Miss  Dewes;  but  Mrs.  Delany,  by  mistake,  told 
him  they  were  for  me.  He  turned  over  a  leaf  or 
two,  and  then  said — 

•'Pray,  does  Miss  Burney  draw  too?"  The  too 
was  pronounced  very  civilly. 

"  I  believe  not.  Sir,"  answered  Mrs.  Delany; 
"  at  least  she  does  not  tell." 

"Oh,"  cried  he,  laughing;  "that's  nothing, 
she  never  does  tell,  you  know.  Iler  father  told 
me  that  himself.  He  told  me  the  whole  histoiy 
of  her  Evelina;  and  I  shall  never  foiget  his  face 
when  he  spoke  of  his  feelings  at  first  taking  up 
the  book.  He  looked  quite  frightened,  just  as  if 
he  was  doing  it  that  moment.  I  never  can  forget 
that  face  while  1  live." 

Then  coming  up  close  to  me,  he  said:  "But 
what!  what!  how  was  it?" 

"Sir?"  cried  I,  not  well  understanding  him. 

"  How  came  you — how  hapiiencd  it — what — 
what!  hoAv  was  it  ?  " 

"  I — I  only  wrote,  Sir,  for  my  amusement — only 
in  some  odd  idle  lumrs." 

"But  your  publishing — your  printing — how  was 
that?" 

"  That  was  only,  Sir — only  because " 

I  hesitated  most  abominably,  not  knowing  liow 
to  tell  him  a  long  story,  and  growing  terribly 
confused  at  these  questions;  besides,  to  say  the 
truth,  his  own  "  Wliat!  what!"  so  reminded  me 
of  those  vile  Prohationary  Odes  [by  "Peter  Pin- 
dar"] that  in  the  midst  of  all  my  flutter  I  was 
hardly  able  to  keep  my  countenance. 

The  "what!"  was  then  repeated,  with  so  earn- 
est a  look,  that,  forced  to  say  something,  I  stam- 
meringly  answered:  "I  thoxight,  Sir,  it  would 
look  very  well  in  print." 

I  do  really  flatter  myself  that  this  is  the  silliest 
speech  I  ever  made.  I  am  quite  provoked  with 
myself  for  it.  But  a  fear  of  laughing  made  me 
eager  to  utter  anything,  and  by  no  means  con- 
scious, till  I  had  spoken,  of  what  I  Avas  saying. 

He  laughed  very  heartily — well  he  might— and 


FRANCES  D'ARBLAY.  363 

walked  away  to  enjoy  it,  crying  out:  "  Very  fair 
indeed;  that's  being  very  fair  and  honest."  Then 
returning  to  me  again,  he  said:  "But  your 
father — how  came  you  not  to  show  him  what  you 
had  written?" 

"  I   was   too   much    ashamed   of    it,    Sir,    seri- 
ously."— Literal  truth  that,  I  am  sure. 
"And  how  did  he  find  it  out?  " 
"I  don't  know  myself.  Sir;  he  would  never  tell 
me. " — Literal  truth  again,  my  dear  father,  as  you 
can  testify. 

"But  how  did  you  get  it  printed?  " 
"  I  sent  it  to  a  bookseller  my  father  never  em- 
ployed,  and  that  I  have  never  seen  myself — Mr, 
Lowndes — in  full  hope   that  by  that  meauij  he 
never  would  hear  of  it." 
"  But  how  could  you  manage  that?  " 
"  By  means  of  a  brother.  Sir." 
"Oh,  you  confided  in  a  brother  then?" 
"Yes,  Sir — that  is,  for  the  publication." 
"  What  entertainment  you  must  have  had  from 
hearing    people's    conjectures    before    you   were 
known.     Do  you  remember  any  of  them?  " 
"Yes,  Sir,  many." 
"And  what?" 

"  I  heard  that  Mr.  Ban-etti  had  laid  a  wager  it 
was  written  by  a  man;  for  no  woman,  he  said, 
could  have  kept  her  own  counsel." 

This  diverted  him  extremely.  "  But  how  was 
it,"  he  continued,  "you  thought  it  most  likely 
for  your  father  to  discover  you?" 

"  Sometimes,  Sir,  I  supposed  I  must  have  dropt 
some  of  the  manuscripts;  sometimes  that  one  of 
my  sisters  betrayed  me." 

"  Oh!  your  sister?     What!  not  your  brother?  " 

"  No,  Sir;  he  could  not,  for " 

I  was  going  on,  but  he  laughed  so  n?iuch  I  could 
not  be  heard,  exclaiming:  "Vastly  well!  I  see 
you  are  of  Mr.  Barretti's  mind,  and  think  your 
brother  could  keep  your  secret,  and  not  your 
sister.  Well,  but,"  cried  he  presently,  "how  was 
it  first  known  to  you  that  you  were  betrayed?  " 

"By  a  letter,  Sir,  from  another  sister.  I  was 
very  ill,  and  in  the  country;  and  she  wrote  me 
word   that  my  father  had    taken   up   a  Review, 


364  FRANCES  D'ARELAY. 

in  whicli  the  book  Avns  mentioued,  and  had  pnt 
his  finger  upon  the  name,  and  said,  '  Conliive  to 
get  that  book  for  me.'  " 

"And  when  he  got  it,"  cried  the  King,  "he 
told  me  he  was  afraid  of  looking  at  it;  and  never 
can  I  forget  his  face  wlieu  he  mentioned  his  first 
opening  it.  But  you  have  not  kept  your  pen  un- 
employed all  this  time?  " 

"Indeed  I  have.  Sir." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  I — I  believe  I  have  exhausted  myself,  Sir." 

He  laughed  aloud  at  this,  and  went  and  told  it 
to  Mrs.  Delany,  civilly  treating  a  plain  fact,  as  a 
mere  bon  mot.  Then  turning  to  me  again,  he  said, 
more  seriously: 

"But  you  have  not  determined  against  writing 
any  more?  " 

"N— o,  Sir." 

"You  have  made  no  vow — no  real  resolution  of 
that  sort?" 

"No,  Sir." 

"  You  only  wait  for  inclination?  " 

"No,  Sir." 

A  very  civil  little  bow  spoke  him  pleased  with 
this  answer,  and  he  went  again  to  the  middle  of 
the  room,  where  he  chiefly  stood,  and  addressed 
us  in  general,  talked  upon  the  different  motives 
in  writing,  concluding  with,  "  I  believe  there  is  no 
consti-aint  to  be  put  on  real  genius;  nothing  but 
inclination  can  set  it  to  work.  Miss  Burney,  how- 
ever, knows  best."  And  then  hastily  returning 
to  me,  he  cried,  "  What!  whati" 

"No,  Sir,  I — I — believe  not,"  quoth  I  very 
awkwardly ;  for  I  seemed  taking  a  violent  compli- 
ment only  as  my  due;  but  I  knew  not  how  to  put 
him  off  as  I  would  another  person. — Diary. 

This  scene  took  place  before  Frances  Bur- 
ney Avas  installed  as  a  quasi  member  of  the 
Royal  household.  Not  very  long  after  this 
event — that  is  early  in  August,  1786 — an  in- 
sane woman,  named  Margaret  Nicholson, 
attempted  to  kill  King  George  III.  MisB 
Burney,  in  a  letter,  gives  an  account  of  how 


FRANCES  D'ARBLAT.  .%r, 

the  affair  ]noko<l  wlioti  viowod  fi-oni  the  Court 
circle : 

ATTEMPT  UPON  THE   KING'S   I.IFE. 

An  attempt  has  been  made  upon  the  hie  of  the 
Kinf;':  I  was  ahiiost  petrified  with  honor  at  this 
intolhgence.  If  tlie  King  is  not  safe — good,  pious, 
beneficent  as  he  is;  if  Iris  life  is  in  danger  from 
his  own  sul)jects,  what  is  to  guard  tlie  throne  ? 
and  which  way  is  a  monarch  to  be  secure  ?  .... 
Madame  LaFite  had  heard  of  the  attempt  only, 
not  the  particulars ;  but  I  was  afterwards  informed 
of  them  in  the  most  interesting  manner;  namely, 
how  they  were  reported  to  the  Queen.  And  as 
the  newspapers  will  have  told  you  all  else,  I  shall 
only  and  briefly  tell  that: 

No  information  arrived  hereof  the  matter  before 
His  Majesty's  return,  at  tlie  usual  hour  in  the  after- 
noon, from  the  levee.  The  Spanish  ]\linister  had 
hurried  off  instantly  to  Windsor,  and  was  in  wait- 
ing at  Lady  Charlotte  Finch's,  to  be  ready  to  as- 
sure Her  Majesty  of  the  King's  safety,  in  case  any 
report  anticipated  his  return.  Tlie  Queen  had 
the  two  eldest  Princesses,  the  Duchess  of  Ancas- 
ter,  and  Lady  Charlotte  Bertie,  with  her  when  the 
King  came  in.  He  hastened  up  to  her.  with  a 
countenance  of  striking  vivacity,  and  said — 

"Here  I  am! — safe  and  well,  as  you  see;  but  I 
have  very  narroAvly  escaped  behig  stabbed." 

His  own  conscious  safety,  and  the  jileasure  he 
felt  in  thus  personally  showing  it  to  the  Queen, 
made  him  not  aware  of  the  effect  of  so  abrupt  a 
communication.  The  Queen  was  seized  with  a 
consternation  that  at  first  almost  stupefied  her, 
and  after  a  most  painful  silence,  the  first  words 
she  could  articulate  were,  in  looking  round  at  the 
Duchess  and  Lady  Charlotte,  who  had  both  burst 
into  tears,  "  I  envy  you — I  can't  cry!  "  The  two 
Princesses  were  for  a  little  while  in  the  same 
state;  but  the  tears  of  the  Duchess  proved  infec- 
tious, and  they  then  wept  even  with  violence. 

The  King,  with  the  gayest  good-humor,  did  his 
utmost  to  comfort  them;  and  then  gave  a  relation 
of  the  affair,  with  a  calmness  and  unconcern  that 


366  FRANCES  D'ARBLAY. 

had  any  one  1>nt  himself  been  liis  hero,  wonhl  have 
been  regarded  as  totally  unfeeling. 

You  may  have  heard  it  all  wrong;  but  I  will 
concisely  tell  it  right.  His  carriage  had  just 
stopped  at  the  garden  door  of  St.  James's,  and  he 
had  just  alighted  from  it  when  a  decently  dressed 
woman,  who  had  been  waiting  for  him  some  time, 
approached  him  with  a  petition.  It  was  rolled 
up,  and  had  the  usual  superscription — "  For  the 
King's  Most  Excellent  Majesty."  She  presented 
it  with  her  right  hand;  and  at  the  same  moment 
that  the  King  bent  forward  to  take  it,  she  drew 
from  it,  with  her  left  hand,  a  knife,  with  which 
she  aimed  straight  at  his  heart.  The  fortunate 
awkwardness  of  taking  the  instrument  with  the 
left  liand,  made  her  design  perceived  before  it 
could  be  executed.  The  King  started  back,  scarce 
believing  the  testimony  of  his  own  eyes;  and  the 
woman  made  a  second  thrust  which  just  touched 
his  waistcoat,  before  he  had  time  to  prevent  her; 
and  at  that  moment  one  of  the  attendants,  seeing 
her  horrible  intent,  wrenched  the  knife  from  her 
hand. 

"  Has  she  cut  my  waistcoat  ?"  cried  he,  in  tell- 
ing it.  "  Look,  for  I  have  had  no  time  to  ex- 
amine." 

Thank  Heaven,  however,  the  poor  wretch  had 
not  gone  quite  so  far.  "  Tliough  nothing,"  added 
the  King,  in  giving  the  relation,  "  could  have  been 
sooner  done,  for  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  go 
through  but  a  thin  linen  and  fat." 

While  the  guards  and  his  own  people  now  sur- 
rounded the  King,  the  assassin  was  seized  by  the 
populace,  who  were  tearing  her  away,  no  doubt  to 
fall  the  instant  victim  of  her  murtherous  purpose, 
when  the  King — the  only  calm  and  moderate  per- 
son then  present — called  aloud  to  the  mob :  "  The 
poor  creature  is  mad!  Do  not  hurt  her!  She  has 
not  hurt  me!"  He  then  came  forward,  and 
showed  himself  to  all  the  people,  declaring  he  was 
perfectly  safe  and  unhurt;  and  then  gave  positive 
orders  that  the  woman  should  be  taken  care  of; 
and  went  into  the  palace,  and  held  his  levee. 

There  is  something  in  the  whole  of  this  behavior 
uijon  this  occasion  that  strikes  me  as  a  proof  of  a 


FRANCES  D'ARBLAY.  3G7 

ti'uc  ftiid  noble  courage:  for  in  a  moment  so  ex- 
traordinary— an  attack  in  this  country  unheard  of 
before — to  settle  so  instantly  that  it  was  the  effect 
of  insanity,  to  feel  no  appiehension  of  private  jjlot 
or  latent  conspiracy — to  stay  out,  fearlessly, 
among  his  people,  and  so  benevolently  to  see  him- 
self to  the  safety  of  one  who  had  raised  her  hand 
against  his  life — these  little  traits,  imioulsive,  and 
therefore  to  be  trusted,  have  given  me  an  impres- 
sion of  respect  and  reverence  that  I  can  never  for- 
get, and  never  think  of  but  with  fresh  admii-ation. 
— Letters. 

When,  at  the  age  of  twenty  or  thereabouts, 
Frances  Burney  wrote  Evelina,  her  style  was 
simple,  unaffected,  and  perspicuous.  She 
had  a  quick  perception  of  character,  and  told 
just  what  she  had  to  tell,  speaking  in  the  per- 
son of  her  heroine,  who  is  the  main  narrator. 
Thus: 

THE   BRAUGIITON   FAMILY. 

The  son  seems  weaker  in  his  understanding,  and 
more  gay  in  his  temper;  but  his  gayety  is  that  of 
an  overgrown  schoolboy,  whose  mirth  consists  in 
noise  and  disturbance.  He  disdains  his  father 
for  his  close  attention  to  business  and  love  of 
money,  though  he  seems  himself  to  have  no  tal- 
ents, spirits,  or  generosity  to  make  him  superior 
to  either.  His  chief  delight  appears  to  be  in  tor- 
menting and  ridiculing  his  sisters,  who  in  return 
most  cordially  despise  him.  Miss  Braughton,  the 
eldest  daughter,  is  by  no  means  ugly.;  but  looks 
proud,  ill-tempered,  and  conceited.  She  hates  the 
city,  tliough  without  knowing  why;  for  it  is  easy 
to  discover  she  has  lived  nowhere  else.  Miss 
Polly  Braughton  is  rather  pretty,  very  foolish, 
very  ignorant,  very  giddy — and  I  believe  very  good- 
natured.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Selwyn  is  very  kind  and  a-tten- 
tive  to  me.  She  is  extremely  clever.  Her  under- 
standing, indeed,  may  be  called  masculine;  but 
unfortunately  her  manners  deserve  the  same  epi- 
thet; for  in  studying  to  acquire  the  knowledge  of 
the  other  sex,  she  lost  all  the  softness  of  her  own. 
In  regard  to  myself,  however,  as  I  have  neither 


368  FltANCES  D'ARBLAY. 

the  courage  nor  inclination  to  argue  witli  her,  J. 
have  never  been  personally  hurt  at  her  want  of 
gentleness — a  virtue  which  nevertheless  seems  so 
essential  a  part  of  female  character,  that  I  find 
myself  more  awkward  and  less  at  ease  with  a 
woman  who  wants  it  than  I  do  with  a  man. — Ece- 
lina. 

When  Frances  Bvirney  wrote  her  second 
novel,  Cecilia,  she  had  come  to  be  intimate 
with  Dr.  Johnson.  She  certainly  tried  to  imi- 
tate him ;  so  much  so  that  it  has  been  plausi- 
bly conjectured  that  the  ponderous  Doctor 
wrote,  now  and  then,  a  paragraph  for  her. 
Thus  of  the  following,  Macaulay  says:  "  We 
say  with  confidence,  either  Sam  Johnson  or 
the  Devil:" 

CHAUACTER  OF   MR.    DELVILLE. 

Even  the  imperious  Mr.  Delville  was  more  sup- 
portable here  than  in  London.  Secure  in  his 
own  castle,  he  looked  round  him  with  a  pride  of 
power  and  possession  which  softened  while  it 
swelled  him.  His  superiority  was  undisputed; 
his  will  was  without  control.  He  was  not,  as  in 
the  great  capital  of  the  kingdom,  surrounded  by 
competitors.  Xo  rivalry  disturbed  his  peace;  no 
equality  mortilied  his  greatness.  All  he  saw  were 
either  vassals  of  his  power,  or  guests  bending  to 
his  pleasure.  He  abated,  therefore,  considerably 
the  stern  gloom  of  his  haughtiness,  and  soothed 
his  proud  mind  by  the  courtesy  of  condescension. 
— Cecilia. 

But  during  the  latter  half  of  her  long  life 
Madame  D'Arblay  could  never  content  her- 
self with  saying  the  simplest  thing  in  any 
other  than  a  stilted  manner.  To  be  starved 
to  death  is  to  "  sink  from  inanition  into  non- 
entity." A  crime  which  subjects  one  .to  im- 
prisonment is  one  ' '  which  produces  incarcer- 
ation." Chimney-SAveepers  are  "those  hap- 
less artificers  who  perform  the  most  abject 
offices  of  any  authorized  calling,  in  being  the 


JOHN^  ARBUTHNOT.  369 

active  guardians  of  our  blazing  hearths." 
Her  father,  returning  from  a  tour  on  the  Con- 
tinent, suffered  a  rheumatic  attack,  which  is 
thus  grandiloquently  commemorated : 

A   FIT   OF   EIIEUMATISM. 

He  was  assaulted,  during  his  precipitated  re- 
turn, by  the  rudest  tierceness  of  wintry  elemental 
strife,  through  which,  with  bad  accommodations 
and  innumerable  accidents,  he  became  a  prey  to 
the  merciless  pangs  of  the  acutest  spasmodic  rheu- 
matism, which  barely  suffered  him  to  reach  his 
home,  ere  long  and  piteously,  it  confined  him,  a 
tortured  prisoner  to  his  bed.  Such  was  the  check 
tliat  almost  instantly  curbed,  though  it  could  not 
subdue  the  rising  pleasure  of  his  hopes  of  enter- 
ing upon  a  new  species  of  existence — that  of  an 
approved  man  of  letters;  for  it  was  on  the  bed  of 
sickness,  exchanging  the  light  wines  of  France, 
Italy,  and  Germany  for  the  black  and  loathsome 
potions  of  the  Apothecaries'  Hall,  writhed  by 
darting  stitches,  and  burning  with  fiery  fever, 
that  lie  felt  the  full  force  of  that  sublunary  equi- 
poise that  seemed  evermore  to  hang  suspended 
over  the  attainment  of  long-sought  and  uncom- 
mon felicity,  just  as  it  is  lipening  to  burst  forth 
with  enjoyment! — Memoir  of  her  Father. 

ARBUTHNOT,  John,  a  British  physician 
and  author,  born  in  Kincardineshire,  Scot- 
land, in  1667;  died  near  London  in  1735.  He 
studied  medicine  at  the  university  of  Aber- 
deen, and  soon  after  taking  his  degree  went 
to  London,  where  he  for  a  time  supported 
himself  by  giving  lessons  in  mathematics. 
He  wrote  an  Examination  of  Dr.  WoodwarcVs 
Account  of  the  Deluge,  and  several  scientific 
essays  and  satires  which  brought  him  into 
notice  as  a  man  of  learning  and  wit.  He 
became  a  member  of  that  literary  circle  of 
which  Pope,  Swift,  Gay,  and  Prior  were Jiiem- 
bers.  Swift  said  of  him,  ' '  He  has  more  wit 
than  we  all  have,  and  more  humanity  than 
24 


370  JOHN  ARBUTHXOT. 

wit ; "  and  Pope  declared  that  he  was  fitter  to 
live  and  to  die  than  any  man  he  knew.  Hap- 
pening to  be  at  Epsom  when  Prince  George 
of  Denmark,  the  husband  of  Queen  Anne,  was 
taken  with  a  sudden  fit  of  gout,  Arbuthnot 
treated  him  so  successfully  that  he  was  made 
the  regular  physician  to  the  Prince,  and  after- 
wai'd  physician  in  ordinary  to  the  Queen. 
He  was  the  author  of  several  professional  and 
scientific  works,  among  which  Avas  a  learned 
treatise  upon  Ancient  Coins,  Weights,  and 
Measures.  The  satirical  Memoirs  of  Martinus 
Scribleriiis,  published  among  the  Works  of 
Pope,  was  written  mainly,  if  not  wholly,  l)y 
Arbuthnot.  Other  satirical  essays  by  Arbuth- 
not are  the  Altercation  or  Scolding  of  the 
Ancients,  and  the  Avt  of  Political  Lying. 
His  most  notable  Avork,  hoAvever,  is  The  His- 
tory of  John  Bull,  published  in  1712.  This 
Avas  primarily  designed  to  ridicule  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough,  and  to  render  unpopular  the 
AA^ar  then  raging  Avith  France.  There  have 
been  numerous  imitations  of  this  History,  in 
Avhich  the  politics  of  later  times  have  been 
similarly  satirized. 

JOHX  BULT.  (the  Enr/llah),  srio.  proo  (the  Dutch), 
AND  HOCUS  (the  Duke  of  Marlborouyh), 

Bull,  in  the  main,  was  an  honest  plain-dealing 
fellow,  choleric,  bold,  and  ot  a  A'ery  luiconstant 
temper,  he  dreaded  not  old  Lewis  [tlie  king  of 
Prance]  either  at  ItacksAvord,  single  falcliion,  or 
ciulgebplay;  but  then  he  was  very  apt  to  quarrel 
Avith  his  best  friends,  especially  if  they  pretended 
to  govern  him;  if  you  flattered  him,  you  might 
lead  him  like  a  child,  John's  temper  depended 
very  much  upon  the  air;  his  spirits  rose  and  fell 
witii  the  Aveather-glass.  John  was  quicK,  and 
understood  his  business  very  Avell;  but  no  man 
alive  Avas  more  careless  in  looking  into  his 
accompts,  or  more  cheated  by  partners,  appren- 
tices, and  servants.     This  was   occasioned  by  his 


JOHN  ARBUTHNOT.  371 

being  a  boon-comitaniou,  loving  liis  bottle  ami  his 
diversion;  for,  to  say  truth,  no  man  kept  a  better 
house  than  John,  nor  spent  his  money  more  gen- 
erously. By  plain  and  fair  dealing,  John  had  ac- 
quired some  plums,  and  might  have  kept  them, 
had  it  not  been  for  his  unliappy  lawsuit  [the  war 
with  France]. 

Mc.  Frog  was  a  cunning  sly  rogue,  quite  the  re- 
verse of  John  in  many  particulars;  covetous,  fru- 
gal; minded  domestic  aifairs;  would  i)inch  his 
belly  to  save  his  pocket;  never  lost  a  farthing  by 
careless  servants  or  bad  debtors.  He  did  not  care 
much  for  any  sort  of  diversions,  except  tricks  of 
High  German  artists  and  legerdemain;  no  man 
exceeded  Nic.  in  these;  yet  it  must  be  owned 
that  Kic.  was  a  fair  dealer,  and  in  that  way  ac- 
quired immense  riches. 

Hocus  was  an  old  cunning  attorney;  and  though 
this  was  the  first  considerable  suit  he  was  en- 
gaged in,  he  showed  himself  superior  in  address  to 
most  of  his  profession;  he  always  kept  good 
clerks,  he  loved  money,  w^as  smooth-tongued,  gave 
good  words,  and  seldom  lost  his  temper;  but  he 
loved  himself  better  than  all.  The  neighbors  re- 
ported that  he  was  henijecked,  which  was  impossi- 
ble by  such  a  mild-spirited  woman  as  his  wife 
was. — The  History  of  John  Bull. 

JOHN  bull's  mother  {the  Anglican  Church). 

John  had  a  mother  whom  he  loved  and  honored 
extremely;  a  discreet,  grave,  sober,  good-condi- 
tioned, cleanly  old  gentlewoman  as  ever  lived. 
She  was  none  of  your  cross-grained,  termagant, 
scolding  jades,  that  one  had  as  good  l)c  hanged  as 
live  in  the  house  with ;  such  as  aie  always  cen- 
suring the  conduct,  and  telling  scandalous  stories 
of  their  neighbors,  extolling  their  own  good  quali- 
ties, and  undervaluing  those  of  others.  On  the 
contrary,  she  was  of  a  meek  spirit;  and  as  she 
was  strictly  virtuous  herself,  so  she  always  ])ut 
the  best  construction  upon  the  words  and  actions 
of  her  neighbors,  except  where  they  were  irrecon- 
cilable to  the  rules  of  honesty  ami  decency.  She 
was  neither  one  of  your  ])recise  pi'udes,  nor  one  of 
your  fantastical  old  belles  that  dress  themselves 


372  JOHN  ARBUTHNOT. 

like  girls  of  lifteen.  As  she  neither  wore  a  ruff, 
forehead-cloth,  nor  high-crowned  hat,  so  she  had 
laid  aside  feathers,  flowers,  and  crimiit  ribbons  in 
her  head-dress,  furbelow  scarfs,  and  hooped  petti- 
coats. She  scorned  to  patch  and  paint,  yet  she 
loved  to  keep  her  hands  and  her  face  clean. 
Though  she  wore  no  flaunting  laced  ruffles,  she 
would  not  keep  lierself  in  a  constant  sweat  with 
greasy  flannel ;  though  her  hair  was  not  stuck  with 
jewels,  she  was  not  ashamed  of  a  diamond  cross. 
She  was  not  like  some  ladies,  hung  about  with  toys 
and  trinkets,  tweezer-cases,  pocket-glasses,  and 
essence-l)ottles;  she  used  only  a  gold  watch  and 
an  almanac,  to  mark  the  hours  and  the  holidays. 

Her  furniture  was  neat  and  genteel,  well-fan- 
cied, with  a  bon  gout.  As  she  affected  not  the 
grandeur  of  a  state  with  a  canopy,  she  thought 
there  was  no  offence  in  an  elbow-chair.  She  had 
laid  aside  your  carving,  gilding,  and  japan-work, 
as  being  too  apt  to  gather  dirt;  but  she  never 
could  be  prevailed  ui)an  to  part  with  plain  wain- 
scot and  clean  hangings.  There  are  some  ladies 
that  affect  to  smell  a  stink  in  everything;  they  are 
always  highly  perfumed,  and  continually  burning 
frankincense  in  their  rooms.  She  was  above  such 
affectation,  yet  she  never  would  lay  aside  the  use 
of  brooms  and  scrubbing-brushes,  and  scrupled 
not  to  lay  her  linen  in  f  resli  lavender.  .  .  , 

There  are  some  ladies  that  affect  a  mighty  re- 
gard for  their  relations:  '*  We  must  not  eat  to- 
day, for  my  uncle  Tom,  or  my  cousin  Betty,  died 
this  time  ten  years;"  or  "Let's  have  a  ball  to- 
night, it  is  my  neighbor  such-an-one's  birthday." 
She  looked  upon  all  this  as  grimace;  yet  she  con- 
stantly observed  her  husband's  birthday,  her  wed- 
ding-day, and  some  few  more 

Though  she  was  a  truly  good  woman,  and  had 
a  sincere  motherly  love  for  her  son  John,  yet  there 
wanted  not  those  who  endeavored  to  create  a  mis- 
understanding between  them;  and  they  had  so 
far  prevailed  with  him  once  that  he  turned  her 
out  of  doors — to  his  great  sorrow,  as  he  found 
afterwards:  for  his   aft'airs   went  on  at  sixes  and 

sevens Though   she   had  a  thousand   good 

qualities,  she  was  not  without  her  faults;  amongst 


JOHN  AllLJUTIINOT.  31S 

which  one  might  perhaps  reckon  too  great  lenity 
to  her  servants,  to  wliom  slie  always  gave  good 
counsel,  but  often  too  gentle  correction. — The  His- 
tory of  John  Bull. 

JOHN  bull's  sistek  PEG  (,the  Scottish  Nation). 

John  had  a  sister,  a  jioor  girl  that  had  been 
starved  at  nurse.  Anybody  would  have  guessed 
Miss  to  have  been  bred  up  under  the  influence  of 
a  cruel  stepdame,  and  John  to  be  the  fondling  of 
a  tender  mother.  John  looked  ruddy  and  plump, 
with  a  pair  of  cheeks  like  a  trumpeter;  Miss 
looked  pale  and  wan,  as  if  she  had  the  green-sick- 
ness. And  no  wonder,  for  John  was  the  darling; 
he  had  all  the  good  bits,  was  crammed  with  good 
pullet,  chicken,  pig,  goose,  and  capon;  while 
Miss  had  only  a  little  oatmeal  and  Avater,  or  a  dry 
crust,  without  butter.  John  had  his  golden  pip- 
pins, peaches,  and  nectarines;  poor  Miss  a  crab- 
apple,  sloe,  or  blackberry  Master  lay  in  the  best 
apartment,  with  his  bed-chamber  towards  the 
south  sun;  INIiss  lodged  in  a  garret,  exposed  to  the 
north  wind,  which  shrivelled  her  countenance. 

However,  this  usage,  though  it  stunted  the 
girl  in  her  growth,  gave  her  a  hardy  constitution. 
She  had  life  and  spirit  in  abundance,  and  knew 
when  she  was  ill-used.  Xow  and  then  she  would 
seize  upon  .John's  commons,  snatch  a  leg  of  a  pul- 
let, or  a  bit  of  good  beef,  for  which  they  were 
sure  to  go  to  fisticufEs.  Master  was  indeed  too 
strong  for  her;  but  Miss  would  not  yield  in  the 
least  point;  but  even  when  Master  had  got  her 
down,  she  would  scratch  and  bite  like  a  tiger; 
when  he  gave  her  a  cuff  on  the  ear,  she  would 
prick  him  with  her  knitting-needle.  In  short, 
these  quarrels  grew  up  into  rooted  aversions. 
They  gave  each  other  nicknames:  she  called  him 
"Gundy-guts,"  and  he  called  her  "  Lousy  Peg," 
though  the  girl  was  a  tight  clever  wench  as  any 
was;  and  through  her  pale  looks  you  might  dis- 
cern spirit  and  vivacity,  which  made  her,  not 
indeed  a  perfect  beauty,  but  something  that  was 
agreeable.  It  was  barbarous  in  the  parents  not  to 
take  notice  of  these  early  quarrels,  and  make 
them  live  better  together;    such  domestic  feuds 


374  BARTOLOMEO  ARGENSOLA. 

proving  afterwards  the  occasion    of  misfortunes 
to  them  l)Oth. 

Peg  had  indeed  some  odd  humors  and  comical 
antipathies,  for  which  John  would  jeer  her. 
"What  think  you  of  my  sister  Peg,"  says  he, 
"  that  faints  at  the  sound  of  an  organ,  and  yet 
will  frisk  and  dance  at  the  noise  of  a  bagpipe  ?  " 
— "What's  that  to  you,  Gundy-guts?"  quoth 
Peg;  "  everybody's  to  choose  their  own  music." 
— Then  Peg  had  taken  a  fancy  not  to  say  her 
pater-noster,  which  made  people  imagine  strange 
things  of  her.  Of  the  three  brothers  that  have 
made  such  a  clatter  in  the  world — Lord  Peter  [the 
Pope],  Martin  [Luther],  and  Jack  [Calvin],  Jack 
had  of  late  ijeen  her  inclination.  Lord  Peter  she 
detested;  nor  did  Martin  stand  much  better  in  her 
good  graces;  but  Jack  had  found  the  way  to  her 
heart. — The  History  of  John  Bull. 

AEGENSOLA,  Bartolomeo  Leonardo,  a 
Spanish  poet,  born  in  1566,  died  in  1633.  He 
was  made  almoner  to  the  Empress  Maria,  wid- 
ow of  Maximilian  II.,  and  after  the  death  of 
his  brother  Lupercio,  in  1613,  succeeded  him 
as  Historiographer  of  Aragon.  He  was  ap- 
pointed canon  of  the  cathedral  in  Saragossa 
by  Pope  Paul  II.  He  wrote  a  continuation 
of  Zurita's  Anales  de  Aragon,  the  Conquista 
de  las  Malucas,  and  several  minor  poems, 
which  were  not  published  until  after  his 
death. 

sonnet:  on  providence. 
"  Parent  of  good !    Since  all  thy  laws  are  just, 
Say,  Avhy  permits  thy  judging  Providence 
Oppression's  hand  to  bow  meek  Innocence, 
And  gives  prevailing  strength  to  Fraud  and  Lust; 
Who  steels  with  stubborn  force  tlie  arm  unjust, 
Tliat  proudly  wars  against  Omnipotence? 
Who  bids  thy  faithful  sons,  that  reverence 
Thine  holy  will,  be  humbled  in  tlie  dust  ?  " — 
Amid  the  din  of  Joy  fair  Virtue  sighs, 
While  the  fierce  conqueror  binds  his  impious  head 
With  laurel,  and  the  car  of  triumph  rolls. — 


LUPERCIO  ARGEISrSOLA.  37.J 

Thus  I,  when  radiant  'fore  my  wondering  eyes 
A  lieavenly  spirit  stood,  and  smiling  said: 
'•  Blind  Moralist!  is  Earth  the  sphere  of  souls?" 
— Transl.  o/HEKBEiiT. 

ARGENSOLA,  Lupercio  Leonardo,  a 
Spanish  dramatist  and  poet,  brother  of  the 
preceding,  born  in  15G5,  died  in  1613.  He  be- 
came chamberlain  to  the  Archbishop  of  To- 
ledo, Secretary  to  the  widowed  Empress  Ma- 
ria of  Austria ;  was  made  Historiographer  of 
Aragon,  and  subsequently  went  to  Naples  as 
Secretary  of  War  and  of  State  to  the  Viceroy, 
the  Count  de  Lemos,  where  he  founded  the 
famous  Acaclemia  degli  Oziosi.  He  wrote 
three  tragedies  which  were  highly  praised  by 
Cervantes,  but  which  were  lost  for  a  century 
and  a  half  after  the  death  of  Argensola,  when 
the  manuscript  of  two  of  them  was  accident- 
ally discovered,  and  first  appeared  in  print  in 
1772.  He  also  wrote  satii'es,  sonnets  and  can- 
ciones,  which  were  published  in  connection 
with  the  poems  of  his  brother.  ' '  Both  broth- 
ers," says  Mr.  Ticknor,  "are  to  be  placed  high 
in  the  list  of  Spanish  lyric  poets;  next,  per- 
haps, after  the  great  masters.  The  elder 
shows,  on  the  whole,  more  of  original  power ; 
but  he  left  only  half  as  many  poems  as  his 
brother  did. "  Lope  de  Vega,  speaking  of  the 
purity  of  their  style,  says:  "It  seemed  ns 
though  they  had  come  from  Aragon  to  reform 
Castilian  verse." 

MARY  MAGDALEN. 

Blessed,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted ! 

The  crowd  arc  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn. 
In  wonder  and  in  scorn 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed. 

Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to 
move 
The  Lord  to  pity  and  to  love. 


376  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

The  gi'eatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 
On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 
Thou   didst  kneel  down  to  him  who  came  from 
heaven, 
Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 

The  ragged  brier  should  change;  the  bitter  fir 
Distil  Arabia's  myrrh; 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 

The  harvest   should  rise  plenteous,  and  the 
swain 
Bear  home  abundant  grain. 

But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  mountains 
Thick  to  their  top  with  roses;  come  and  see 
Leaves  on  the  dry,  dead  tree: 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  foiintains, 
Grows  fruitful,    and   its  beauteous  branches 
rise 
Forever  towards  the  skies. 

—  TfCmsl.  of  BliYANT. 

AEGYLL,  (George  Douglas  Campbell), 
eighth  Duke  of,  in  Scotland,  was  born  in  1823, 
and  succeeded  to  the  Dukedom  upon  the 
death  of  his  father  in  1847 ;  previous  to  which 
he  had  borne  the  courtesy  title  of  Marquis  of 
Lome,  which  has  since  been  borne  by  his  son, 
who  in  1871  was  married  to  the  Princess 
Louise,  daughter  of  Queen  Victoria.  Before 
his  accession  to  the  Dukedom  he  had  become 
known  as  an  author,  public  speaker,  and  poli- 
tician. He  wrote  several  pamphlets  bearing 
upon  the  "  Free  Church  "  controversy  in  Scot- 
land which  was  vehemently  agitated  about 
1842,  and  was  a  warm  advocate  of  the  princi- 
ples maintained  by  Dr.  Thomas  Chalmers. 
After  his  accession  to  the  peerage  the  Duke 
was  an  earnest  supporter  of  ''  Liberal "'  meas- 
ures in  the  House  of  Lords.  In  1852  he  en- 
tered the  Cabinet  of  the  Earl  of  Aberdeen,  as 


THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  377 

Lord  Privy  Seal;  and  held  office  under  sev- 
eral successive  administrations,  with  brief  in- 
tervals, when  his  party  was  out  of  power. 
In  1881  he  resigned  the  office  of  Lord  Privy 
Seal  in  Mr.  Gladstone's  Cabinet,  on  account 
of  a  disagi'eement  with  his  colleagues  concern- 
ing some  provisions  of  the  Irish  Land  Bill. 
In  1851  the  Duke  was  elected  Chancellor  of  the 
University  of  St.  Andrew's  and  in  1854  Rec- 
tor of  the  University  of  Glasgow.  In  1855  he 
presided  over  the  annual  meeting  of  the  Brit- 
ish Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Sci- 
ence, and  in  1861  was  elected  President  of  the 
Eoyal  Society  of  Edinburgh.  His  writings, 
mainly  upon  current  topics  of  the  day,  are 
numerous ;  but  some  of  his  works  of  a  more 
permanent  character  have  passed  through 
several  editions,  and  have  been  republished  in 
the  United  States.  Among  these  are  The 
Reign  of  Laiv  (18G6) ;  Primeval  Man  (18C9) ; 
andr/ie  Unity  of  Natuve  (1883). 

THE   SUPERNATURAL  AND   THE   NATURAL. 

Theological  and  philosophical  writers  frequently 
use  the  "supernatural"  as  synonymous  with  tlie 
"Superhuman."  But  this  is  not  the  sense  in 
which  any  one  can  have  any  difficulty  in  believing 
in  it.  The  powers  and  works  of  Nature  are  all 
superhuman;  more  than  man  can  account  for  in 
their  origin,  more  than  he  can  resist  in  their  en- 
ergy, more  than  he  can  understand  and  in  their  ef- 
fects. This,  then,  cannot  be  the  sense  in  wliich  so 
many  minds  find  it  hard  to  accept  the  Supernat- 
ural, nor  can  it  be  the  sense  in  which  others 
cling  to  it  as  of  the  very  essence  of  their  religious 
faith.  What,  then,  is  that  other  sense  in  which 
the  difficulty  arises?— Perhaps  we  shall  best  fm-I 
it  by  seeking  the  idea  which  is  competing  with  it, 
and  by  which  it  has  been  displaced.  It  is  the 
Natural  wliich  has  been  casting  out  the  Supernat- 
ural: the  idea  of  Natural  Law — the  universal 
reign  of  a  fixed  Order  of  Things.  This  idea  is  the 
product    of    that  immense    development  of  the 


37S  THE  DUKE  OF  AIIGYLL. 

physical  sciences  which  is  characteristic  of  our 
time.  Sometimes,  but  rarely,  it  is  stated  with  ac- 
curacy, and  with  due  recognition  of  the  lim- 
its within  which  Law  can  be  said  to  comprehend 
the  phenomena  of  the  world.  But  generally  it 
is  expressed  in  language  vague  and  hollow, 
covering  inaccurate  conceptions,  and  confound- 
ing under  common  forms  of  expression  ideas 
which  are  essentially  distinct.  The  mere  ticket- 
ing and  orderly  assortment  of  external  facts  is 
constantly  spoken  of  as  if  it  were  in  the  nature  of 
explanation,  and  as  if  no  higher  truth  in  respect 
to  natural  phenomena  were  to  be  attained  or  de- 
sired. And  herein  we  see  both  the  result  for 
which  Bacon  labored,  and  the  result  against  which 
Bacon  prayed.  But  every  now  and  then,  for  a 
time  at  least,  from  "  the  unlocking  of  the  gates  of 
sense,  and  the  kindling  of  a  greater  natural  light, 
incredulity  and  intellectual  night  have  arisen  in 
our  minds." 

But  let  us  observe  exactly  where  and  how  the 
difficulty  arises: — The  Keign  of  Law  in  Nature  is 
indeed,  so  far  as  we  can  observe  it,  universal. 
But  the  common  idea  of  the  Sui)ernatural  is  that 
which  is  at  variance  with  Xatural  Law — above  it, 
or  ill  violation  of  it.  Nothing,  however  wonder- 
ful, which  happens  according  to  Natural  Law 
would  be  considered  by  any  one  as  Supernatural. 
The  Tjaw  in  obedience  to  which  a  wonderful  thing 
happens  may  not  be  known;  but  this  would  not 
give  it  a  supernatural  character,  so  long  as  we  as- 
suredly believe  that  it  did  happen  according  to 
■so)//e  Law,  Hence,  it  would  appear  to  follow  that 
a  man  thoroughly  possessed  of  the  idea  of  Natu- 
ral Law  as  universal,  never  could  admit  anything 
to  be  Supernatural;  because  seeing  any  fact,  how- 
ever new,  marvellous,  or  incomprehensible,  he 
would  escape  into  the  conclusion  that  it  was  the 
result  of  some  Natural  Law  of  which  he  had  be- 
fore been  ignorant.  Seeing  the  boundless  extent 
of  our  ignorance  of  the  Natural  Laws  which  regu- 
late the  phenomena  around  us,  nothing  can  be 
more  reasonable  than  to  conclude,  when  we  see 
something  which  is  to  us  a  wonder,  that  some- 
how— if  we  only  knew  how — it   is  "  all  right,"  all 


THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  379 

according  to  the  Constitution  and  the  Course  of 
Nature.  But  then,  to  justify  this  'conclusion,  we 
must  understand  "Nature"  in  the  largest  sense, 
as  including  all  that  is 

."In  the  round  ocean,  and  the  Hving  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man." 

We  must  understand  it  as  including  every  agency 
which  we  see  entering — or  can  conceive  from  anal- 
ogy as  ca^jable  of  entering — into  the  causation  of 
the  world.  First  and  foremost  among  these  is  the 
agency  of  our  own  Mind  and  Will.  Yet,  strange 
to  say,  all  reference  to  this  agency  is  often  tacitly 
excluded  when  we  speak  of  tlie  "Tjaws  of  Nature." 
— Tlie  lieign  of  Law,  Chap.  I. 

VITAL   FORCES   AND   MATTER. 

What  is  a  Vital  Force?  It  is  something  Avhich 
we  cannot  see,  but  of  whose  existence  we  are  as 
certain  as  we  are  of  its  visible  effects ;  nay,  which 
our  reason  tells  us  precedes  and  is  superior  to 
these.  We  often  speak  of  Material  Forces  as  if  we 
could  identify  any  kind  of  Force  with  Matter. 
But  this  is  only  one  of  the  many  ambiguities  of 
language.  All  that  we  mean  by  a  Material  Force 
is  a  Force  which  acts  upon  Matter,  and  produces 
in  Matter  its  own  appropriate  effects.  We  must 
go  a  step  further,  therefore,  and  ask  ourselves, 
"  What  is  Force?  What  is  our  conception  of  it?  " 
What  idea  can  we  form,  for  example,  of  the  real 
nature  of  that  Force  the  measure  of  whose  opera- 
tions has  been  so  exactly  ascertained — the  Force 
of  Gravitation? — It  is  invisible,  imponderable;  all 
our  words  for  it  are  but  circumlocutions  to  ex- 
press its  phenomena  or  effects. 

Thei'e  a)"e  many  kinds  of  Force  in  Nature  which 
we  distinguish  after  the  same  fashion,  accord- 
ing to  their  effects,  or  according  to  the  forms  of 
Matter  in  which  they  become  cognizable  to  us. 
But  if  we  trace  all  our  conceptions  on  the  nature 
of  Force  to  their  fountain-head  we  shall  find  that 
they  are  formed  on  our  own  consciousness  of  Liv- 
ing Effort — of  the  force  which  has  its  seat  in  our 
own  vitality;  and  especially  on  that  kind  of  it 
which   can   be  called  forth  at  the  bidding  of  the 


380  THE  DUKE  OF  AIIGYLL. 

Will.  In  connecting,  however,  our  conceptions  of 
Force  with  the  consciousness  of  Living  Effort  in 
ourselves,  we  must  guard  against  mistaking  anal- 
ogy for  identity,  and  against  confounding  to- 
gether two  items  of  knowledge  which  are  .quite 
distinct.  Correlative  with  the  consciousness  of 
Living  Effort  in  ourselves,  and  inseparable  from 
it,  there  is  the  consciousness  of  Force  acting  on 
us,  as  well  as  acting  in  us.  Thus  the  knowledge 
of  an  external  world — that  is  to  say,  the  knowl- 
edge of  external  Force — stands  side  by  side  with 
the  knowledge  of  Self.  But  if  we  come  to  ask 
ourselves  farther  questions  as  to  the  nature  and 
seat  of  Material  Force,  we  can  only  think  of  it  in 
the  terms  of  the  Vital  Force  exerted  by  ourselves. 
If  we  can  ever  know  anything  of  the  nature  of  any 
Force  it  ought  to  be  of  this  one;  and  yet  the  fact 
is  that  we  know  nothing. 

If,  then,  we  know  nothing  of  that  kind  of  Force 
which  is  so  near  us,  and  with  which  our  own  In- 
telligence is  in  such  close  alliance,  much  less  can 
we  know  the  ultimate  nature  of  Force  in  its  other 
forms.  We  know  nothing  of  the  ultimate  nature 
or  of  the  ultimate  seat  of  Force.  Science — in  the 
modern  doctrine  of  the  Conservation  of  Energy, 
and  the  Convertibility  of  Forces — is  already  get- 
ting something  like  a  firm  hold  of  the  idea  that 
all  kinds  of  Force  are  but  forms  or  manifestations 
of  some  one  Central  Force  issuing  from  some  one 
Fountain-head  of  Power.  Sir  John  Herschel  has 
not  hesitated  to  say  that  "it  is  but  reasonable  to 
regard  the  Force  of  Gravitation  as  the  direct  or 
indirect  result  of  a  Consciousness  or  Will  existing 
somewhere."  And  even  if  we  cannot  certainly 
identify  Force  in  all  its  forms  with  the  direct  en- 
ergies of  One  omnipresent  and  all-pervading  Will, 
it  is  at  least  in  the  highest  degree  unphilosoi)hical 
to  assume  the  contrary;  to  speak  or  think  as  if  the 
Forces  of  Nature  were  either  independent  of, 
or  even  separate  from,  the  Creator's  Power. — The 
Beign  of  Law,  Chap.  II. 


THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  ySl 

ANALOGY   BETWEEN   MAN'S   AVORKS  AND  THOSE  OF 
THE   CKEATOK. 

Whatever  difficulty  there  may  be  in  conceiving 
of  a  Will  not  exercised  by  a  visible  Person,  it  is  a 
difficulty  which  cannot  be  evaded  by  arresting  our 
conceptions  at  the  point  at  which  they  liave  ar- 
rived in  forming  the  idea  of  the  Laws  or  Forces. 
That  idea  is  itself  made  up  out  of  elements  de- 
rived from  our  own  consciousness  of  Personality. 
It  is  perfectly  true  that  the  Mind  docs  recognize 
in  Nature  a  reflection  of  itself.  But  if  this  be  a 
deception,  it  is  a  deception  which  is  not  avoided 
by  transferring  the  idea  of  Personality  to  tli^e  ab- 
stract idea  of  Force,  or  by  investing  combinations 
of  Force  with  the  attributes  of  Mind. 

We  need  not  be  jealous  then,  when  new  do- 
mains are  claimed  as  under  the  lieign  of  Law — an 
agency  through  which  we  see  working  everywhere 
some  Purpose  of  the  Everlasting  Will.  The  mech- 
anisms devised  by  Man  are  in  this  respect  only  an 
image  of  the  more  perfect  mechanism  of  Nature, 
in  which  the  same  princiide  of  Adjustment  is  al- 
ways the  highest  result  which  Science  can  ascer- 
tain or  recognize.  There  is  this  difference,  in- 
deed— that  in  regard  to  our  works  our  knowledge 
of  Natural  Laws  is  very  imperfect,  and  our  con- 
trol over  them  is  very  feeble;  whereas,  in  the  ma- 
chinery of  Nature  there  is  evidence  of  complete 
knowledge  and  of  absolute  control.  The  univer- 
sal rule  is  that  everything  is  brought  about  by 
way  of  Natural  Consequence.  But  another  rule 
is  that  all  Consecpiences  meet  and  fit  into  each 
other  in  endless  circles  of  Harmony  and  Purpose; 
and  this  can  only  be  ex])lained  by  the  fact  that 
what  we  call  Natural  Consequence  is  always  the 
conjoint  effect  of  an  infinite  number  of  Element- 
ary Forces,  whose  action  and  reaction  are  under 
the  direction  of  the  Will  which  we  see  obeyed, 
and  of  the  Purposes  which  we  see  actually  at- 
tained. 

It  is,  indeed,  the  completeness  of  the  analogy 
between  our  own  works  on  a  small  scale,  and  the 
works  of  the  Creator  on  an  infinitely  large  scale, 
which  is  the  greatest  mystery  of  all.  Man  is  con- 
strained to  adopt  the  principle  of  Adjustment,  be- 


382  THE  UUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

cause  tlie  Forces  of  Nature  arc  external  to  and  in- 
dependent of  his  Will.  They  may  be  managed, 
but  they  cannot  be  disobeyed.  It  is  imi^ossible  to 
suppose  that  they  stand  in  the  same  relation  to 
the  Will  of  the  Supreme;  yet  it  seems  as  if  He 
took  the  same  method  of  dealing  with  them — 
never  violating  them,  never  breaking  them,  but 
always  ruling  them  by  that  which  we  call  Adjust- 
ment, or  Contrivance.  Nothing  gives  us  such  an 
idea  of  the  Immutability  of  Laws  as  this;  nor 
does  anything  give  us  such  an  idea  of  their  plia- 
bility to  use.  llow  imperious  they  are,  yet  how 
submissive !  How  they  reign,  yet  how  they  serve  I 
— Tlie  Beiyn  of  Law,  Chap.  II. 

TUE   THEOKY   OF   DEVKLOPMENT. 

There  is  one  idea  which  has  been  common  to  all 
theories  of  Development;  and  that  is  the  idea  that 
ordinary  Generation  has  somehow  been  producing, 
from  time  to  time,  (extraordinary  effects;  and  tliat 
a  Species  is,  in  fact,  simply  an  unusual  Birtli. 
The  earlier  forms  in  which  the  theory  of  Develop- 
ment appeared  did  suggest  something  more  nearly 
approaching  to  a  Law  of  Creation  than  is  con- 
tained in  the  later  form  which  that  theory  has  as- 
sumed in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Darwin.  The  essential 
idea  of  the  theory  of  Development,  in  its  earlier 
forms,  was  that  modifications  of  structure  arose, 
somehow,  by  way  of  Natural  Consequence,  from 
the  ovitw'ard  circumstances  or  physical  conditions 
which  required  them,  and  from  the  living  effort 
of  the  Organism  sensible  in  some  degree  of  that 
recjuirement.  Now,  inadequate,  and  even  gro- 
tesque as  this  idea  may  be  as  exi^laining  the 
origin  of  new  Species,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
it  makes  its  appeal  to  a  process  which — at  least 
to  a  limited  extent — does  operate  in  producing 
mt)dilications  of  organic  structure.  For  exam- 
l)lc,  the  same  species  of  mollusc  has  often  a 
shell  comparatively  weak  and  thin,  or  a  shell 
comparatively  thick  and  strong,  according  as  it 
lies  in  tranquil  or  in  stormy  water;  trees  which 
are  most  exposed  to  the  blast  are  most  strongly 
anchored  in  the  soil;  limbs  whicli  arc  the  most 
used  are  the  most  developed;   orj';ans   which  are 


THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  SS?, 

in  constant  use  are  strengtlicncd,  whilst  organs 
in  habitual  disuse  have  a  tendency  to  become 
weaker. 

All  these  results  arise  by  way  of  Natural  Conse- 
quence. How  shall  we  describe  them?  Shall  we 
say  that  they  are  the  result  of  Law?  We  may 
safely  do  so,  remembering;  only  that  by  Law,  in 
this  sense,  we  mean  nothing  but  the  co-operation 
of  different  Natural  Forces  which,  under  certain 
conditions,  work  together  for  the  fullilmeiit  of  an 
obvious  intention.  Of  the  nature  of  these  Forces 
we  know  nothing;  nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive  how 
they  have  been  so  co-ordinated  as  to  produce  ef- 
fects fitting  with  such  exactness  into  the  condi- 
tions requisite  for  the  preservation  of  Organic 
Life.  If  there  were  any  evidence  that  by  the  same 
means  new  Forms  of  Life  could  be  developed 
from  the  old,  I  cannot  see  why  there  should  lie 
any  reluctance  to  admit  the  fact.  It  would  be 
different  from  anything  that  we  see,  but  I  do  not 
know  that  it  would  be  at  all  less  wonderful,  or 
that  it  would  Ining  us  much  nearer  than  we  now 
stand  to  the  great  mystery  of  Creation.  The 
adaptation  and  arrangement  of  Natural  Forces, 
wiiich  can  compass  these  modifications  of  animal 
structure,  in  exact  proportion  to  the  need  of  them, 
is  an  adaptation  and  arrangement  which  is  in  the 
nature  of  Creation.  It  can  only  be  due  to  th« 
working  of  a  power  which  is  in  the  nature  of 
Creative  Power. — The  Reign  of  Law,  Chap.  V. 

THE   ORIGIN  OF   MAN. 

The  Humair  Race  has  no  more  knowledge  or 
recollection  of  its  own  origin  than  a  child  has  of 
its  own  birth.  But  a  child  drinks  in  with  its 
mothei"'s  milk  some  knowledge  of  the  relation  in 
which  it  stands  to  its  own  parents,  and  as  it 
grows  up  it  knows  of  other  children  being  born 
around  it.  It  sees  one  generation  going  and  an- 
other generation  coming;  so  that  long  before  the 
years  of  childhood  close,  the  ideas  of  Birth 
and  Death  are  alike  familiar.  Whatever  sense 
of  mystery  may,  in  the  first  dawnings  of  re- 
flection, have  attached  to  either  of  these  ideas  is 
soon  lost  in  the  familiar  exijerience  of  the  world. 


384  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

The  same  experience  extends  to  the  lower  ani- 
mals :  they  too  are  born  and  die.  But  no  such  ex- 
perience ever  comes  to  us,  casting  any  light  on 
the  Origin  of  our  Race,  or  of  any  other. 

Some  varieties  of  form  are  effected,  in  the  case 
of  a  few  animals,  by  domestication,  and  by  con- 
stant care  in  the  selection  of  peculiarities  trans- 
missible to  the  young.  But  these  variations  are 
all  within  certain  limits;  and  wherever  human 
care  relaxes  or  is  abandoned,  the  old  forms  return, 
and  the  selected  characters  disappear.  The 
founding  of  new  forms  by  the  union  of  different 
species,  even  when  standing  in  close  natural  rela- 
tion to  each  other,  is  absolutely  forbidden  by  the 
sentence  of  sterility  which  Nature  pronounces  and 
enforces  upon  all  hybrid  offspring. 

And  so  it  results  that  Man  has  never  seen  the 
origin  of  any  species.  Creation  by  birth  is  the 
only  kind  of  creation  he  has  ever  seen;  and  from 
this  kind  of  creation  he  has  never  seen  a  new 
species  come.  And  yet  he  does  know  (for  this 
the  science  of  Palaeontology  has  most  certainly 
revealed)  that  the  introduction  of  new  species  has 
been  a  work  carried  on  constantly  and  continuously 
during  vast  but  unknown  periods  of  time.  The 
whole  face  of  animated  nature  has  been  changed 
— not  once,  but  frequently,  not  suddenly  for  the 
most  part — perhaps  not  suddenly  in  any  case — but 
slowly  and  gradually,  and  yet  completely. 

When  once  this  fact  is  clearly  apprehended — 
whenever  we  become  familiar  with  the  idea  that 
Creation  had  a  Histoiy — we  are  inevitably  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  Creation  has  also  had  a 
Method.  And  then  the  further  question  arises, 
"  What  has  this  Method  been?" — It  is  perfectly 
natural  that  men  who  have  any  hopes  of  sohing 
this  question  should  take  that  supposition  which 
seems  the  readiest;  and  the  readiest  supposition 
is,  that  the  agency  by  which  new  species  are  cre- 
ated is  the  same  agency  by  which  new  individuals 
are  born.  The  difficulty  of  conceiving  any  other 
compels  men,  if  they  are  to  guess  at  all,  to  guess 
upon  this  foundation.— PriineKul  Man,  Pari  II. 


THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  385 

I'EKPETUITY    OF   MAN. 

Sucli  as  Man  now  is,  Man,  so  far  as  we  yet 
know,  has  always  been.  Two  skeletons  at  least 
have  been  found  respecting  which  there  is  strong 
ground  for  believing  that  they  belong  to  the  very 
earliest  race  which  lived  in  Northern  Europe. 
One  of  these  skeletons  indicates  a  coarse,  perhaps 
even  what  we  should  call — as  we  might  fairly 
some  living  specimens  of  our  1-acc — a  Brutal  Man; 
yet  even  this  skeleton  is,  in  all  its  proportions, 
strictly  Human;  its  cranial  capacity  indicates  a 
volume  of  brain,  and  some  peculiarities  of  shape, 
not  materially  different  from  many  skulls  of  sav- 
age races,  now  living.  The  other  skeleton — re- 
specting which  the  evidence  of  extreme  antiquity 
is  the  strongest — is  not  only  perfectly  Human  in 
all  its  proportions,  but  its  skull  has  a  cranial 
capacity  not  inferior  to  that  of  many  modern 
Europeans.  This  most  ancient  of  all  known 
human  skulls  is  so  ami^lc  in  its  dimensions  that  it 
might  have  contained  the  brains  of  a  Philosopher. 
So  conclusive  is  this  evidence  against  any  change 
whatever  in  the  specific  characters  of  Man  since 
the  oldest  Human  Being  yet  known  was  born, 
that  Prof.  Huxley  pronounces  it  to  be  clearly  in- 
dicated that  "the  first  traces  of  the  primordial 
stock  whence  Man  has  proceeded  need  no  longer 
be  sought,  by  those  who  entertain  any  form  of  the 
doctrine  of  Progressive  Development,  in  the  new- 
est tertiaries  [that  is  in  the  oldest  deposits  yet 
known  to  contain  human  remains  at  all] ;  but  they 
may  be  looked  for  in  an  epoch  more  distant  from 
the  age  of  tlnjse  tertiaries  than  that  is  from  us." 

So  far,  therefore,  the  evidence  is  on  the  side  of 
the  originality  of  Man  as  a  Species — nay,  even,  as 
a  Class,  by  himself — sej^arated  by  a  gulf  practi- 
cally immeasurable  from  all  the  creatures  that 
are,  or  that  are  known  ever  to  have  been,  his  con- 
temporaries in  the  world.  In  the  possession  of 
this  grovnid,  we  can  wait  for  such  further  evi- 
dence in  favor  of  transmutation  as  may  be  brought 
to  light.  Meanwhile,  at  least,  we  are  entitled  to 
remain  incredulous,  rememliering — as  Prof.  Phil- 
lips has  said — that  ''everywhere  we  are  required 
by  the  hypothesis  to  look  somewhere  else;  which 


386  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

may  fairly  be  interpreted  to  sio;iiify  that  the  hy- 
pothesis everywhere  fails  in  the  first  and  most 
important  step.  How  is  it  conceivable  that  the 
second  stage  should  be  everywhere  preserved,  but 
the  first  nuwliere?''— Primeval  Man,  Part  II. 

THE   ANTIQUITY  OF   MAN. 

In  passing  from  the  subject  of  Man's  Origin 
to  the  subject  of  his  Antiquity,  we  pass  from 
almost  total  darkness  to  a  question,  which  is 
comparatively  accessible  to  reason  and  open  to  re- 
search. Evidence  bearing  upon  this  question  may 
be  gathered  along  several  walks  of  science;  and 
these  are  all  found  tending  in  one  direction,  and 
pointing  to  one  genei-al  result. 

First  comes  the  evidence  of  History — embracing 
under  that  name  all  Literature,  whether  it  pro- 
fesses to  record  events,  or  does  no  more  than 
allude  to  them  in  poetry  and  song.  Then  comes 
Archceology — the  evidence  of  Human  Monuments, 
belonging  to  times  or  races  whose  A'oicc,  though 
not  silenced,  has  become  inarticulate  to  us. 
Piecing  on  to  this  evidence,  comes  that  which 
Geology  has  recently  afforded  from  human  re- 
mains associated  with  the  latest  physical  changes 
on  the  surface  and  in  the  climates  of  the  globe. 
Then  comes  the  evidence  of  Language,  founded 
on  the  facts  of  Human  Speech,  and  the  laws 
which  regulate  its  development  and  growth.  And 
lastly,  there  is  the  evidence  afforded  by  the  exist- 
ing Fliysical  Structure  and  the  existing  Geograph- 
ical Distribution  of  the  various  Races  of  Man- 
kind. 

One  distinction,  however,  it  is  important  to 
bear  in  mind;  Chronology  is  of  two  kinds:  First, 
Time  measurable  by  Years;  and  secondly,  Time 
measurable  only  by  an  ascertained  Order  or  Suc- 
cession of  Events.  The  one  may  be  called  Time- 
absolute,  the  other  Time-relative. 

Now,  among  all  the  sciences  which  afford  us 
any  evidence  on  the  Antiquity  of  Man,  one — and 
one  only — gives  us  any  knowledge  of  Time-abso- 
lute; and  that  is  History.  From  all  the  others  we 
can  gather  only  the  less  definite  information  of 
Time-relative.     They  can   tell  us  nothing    more 


THE  DUKE  OP'  ARGYLL.  387 

than  the  order  in  which  certain  events  took  place. 
But  of  the  len.fjtli  of  mterval  between  those  events, 
neither  Arcliaeolo^y,  nor  Geology,  nor  Ethnoloj^y 
can  tell  us  anything.  Even  History,  that  is,  the 
records  of  Written  Documents,  carries  us  back  to 
times  of  which  no  contemporary  account  remains, 
and  the  distance  of  which  from  any  known  epoch 
is,  and  must  be,  a  matter  of  conjecture. — Pri- 
meval Man,  Part  III. 

THE   HEBREW   CHRONOLOGY. 

No  other  history  than  the  Hebrew  History  even 
professes  to  go  back  to  the  Creation  of  Man,  or  to 
give  any  account  of  the  events  which  connect  the 
existing  generations  with  the  first  i"»rogenitor  of 
their  race.  And  of  that  History  the  sole  object  ap- 
pears to  be  to  give  the  outline  of  such  transactions 
as  had  a  special  bearing  on  Religious  Truth,  and 
on  the  coui'se  of  Spiritual  Belief.  The  intimations 
given  in- the  earlier  chapters  of  the  Book  of  Genesis 
on  all  matters  of  purely  secular  interest  are  inci- 
dental only,  and  exceedingly  obscure.  And  yet 
it  is  not  a  total  silence.  Enough  is  said  to  indi- 
cate how  much  there  lay  beyond  and  oiitside  of 
the  narrative  which  is  given.  The  dividing  of  the 
tribes  of  the  Gentiles  among  the  descendants  of 
Japheth  conveys  the  idea  of  movements  and  oper- 
ations which  probably  occupied  long  intervals  of 
time,  and  many  generations  of  men.  The  same  im- 
pression must  arise  from  the  condensed  abstract 
given  of  the  origin  and  growth  of  commiinities 
capable  of  building  such  cities  as  Resen  and  Caleh 
and  Nineveh  arc  described  to  be.  In  the  gene- 
alogy of  the  family  of  Shem  we  have  a  list  of 
names,  which  are  names,  and  nothing  more  to  us. 
It  is  a  genealogy  which  neither  does,  nor  pro- 
fesses to  do,  more  than  to  trace  the  order  of  suc- 
cession among  a  few  families  only  out  of  the  mill- 
ions then  already  existing  in  the  world.  Nothing 
but  this  order  of  succession  is  given;  nor  is  it  at 
all  certain  that  this  order  is  consecutive  or  com- 
plete. Nothing  is  told  us  of  all  tliat  lay  behind 
that  curtain  of  thick  darkness  in  front  of  which 
these  names  are  made  to  pass.  And  yet  there 
are,  as  it  were,  momentary  liftings,  through  which 


388  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

we  have  rjlimpses  of  great  movements  which  wei-e 
goiii.o  on— and  had  long  been  going  on— beyond. 
No  shapes  are  distinctly  seen.  Even  the  direction 
of  those  movements  can  be  only  guessed.  But 
voices  are  heard,  which  are  as  the  voices  of  many 
nations. 

The  very  first  among  the  descendants  of  Noah 
whose  individuality  and  personality  is  clear  to  us, 
is  introduced  in  a  manner  which  reveals  the  fact 
that  different  races  of  the  human  family  had  then 
been  long  established   and  Avidely  spread.     The 
memorable  and  mysterious  journey  which  brought 
Terah  into  Haran  on  his  way  to  Canaan  was  a 
journey  beginning  in  that  ancient  home,  Ur  al- 
ready known  as  "  of  the  Chaldees."     And  when 
the  great  figure  of  his  son  Abraham  appears  upon 
the    scene,    we    find    ourselves    already    in    the 
presence  of  the  Monarchy  of  Egypt,  and  of  the 
advanced    civilization   of    the   Pharaohs.     In   the 
same   narrative,  on   another   side,  we   come   into 
the  presence  of  one  of  those  great  Military  King- 
doms of  the  East;  which  in  succession  occupy  so 
large  a  space  in  the  history  of  the  ancient  world, 
Chedorlaomer,   with   his   tributary   Princes,   was 
then  the  ruler  of  nations  capable  of  waging  wars 
of  conquest  at  great  distances  from    the  seat  of 
their  government,  and  the  centre  of  their  power. 
We  see  in  him,  therefore,  the  Sovereign  of  along- 
established  and   powerful  race.     And  yet  these 
migrations  and  wars  of  Abraham  stand,  if  not  at 
the  very  beginning  of  History,  at  least  at  the  very 
beginning  of  Historical  Chronology.     They  mark 
the  very  earliest  date  in  the  History  of  Man  on 
which,  within  moderate  limits  of  divergence,  all 
chronologists  are  agreed.    That  date  may  be  fixed 
at  2000  B.C.     This   is   the   boundary,  in   looking 
backwards,    of    Time-absolute:    all    beyond,     is 
Time-relative. 

We  have  indeed  other  evidence  of  an  histori- 
cal character  to  show  that  the  Monarchy  of  Egypt 
had  been  founded  long  before  the  time  of  Abra- 
ham ;  but  how  long,  is  a  question  on  which  there 
is  the  widest  discrepancy  of  opinion.  The  most 
moderate  computation,  liowever,  carries  the  foun- 
dation of  that  Monarchy  as  far  back  as  700  years 


THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  3S9 

before  the  visit  of  the  Hebrew  Patriarch;  and 
some  of  the  best  (Jerman  scholars  hold  that  there 
is  evidence  of  a  much  longer  chronology.  But 
seven  centuries  before  Abraham  is  the  estimate 
of  Mr.  11.  Stuart  Poole,  of  the  British  Museum, 
who  is  one  of  the  highest  authorities  upon  ques- 
tions of  Egyptian  Chronology.  This  places  the 
beginning  of  the  Pharaohs  in  the  twenty-eighth 
century  b.c.  But  according  to  Ussher's  inter- 
pi'etatiou  of  the  Hebrew  Pentateuch  the  twenty- 
eighth  century  b.c.  would  be  some  400  years  be- 
fore the  Flood.  On  the  other  hand,  a  difference 
of  800  years  is  allowed  by  the  chronology  which  is 
founded  on  the  Septuagint  Version  of  the  Script- 
ures. 

But  the  fact  of  this  difference  cuts  in  two  ways: 
A  margin  of  variation  amounting  to  eight  cen- 
turies between  two  versions  of  the  .<5ame  docu- 
ment, is  a  variation  so  enormoiis  that  it  seems  to 
cast  complete  doubt  on  the  whole  system  of  inter- 
pretation on  whicli  it  is  based.  And  yet  it  is 
more  than  questionable  whether  it  is  possible  to 
reconcile  the  known  order  of  events  with  even 
this  larger  number  of  years.  It  is  true  that,  ac- 
cording to  this  larger  estimate,  the  Flood  would 
be  carried  back  about  four  and  a-half  centuries 
beyond  the  foundation  of  the  Pharaohs.  But  is 
this  enough?  The  foundation  of  a  Monarchy  is 
not  the  beginning  of  a  Race.  The  people  among 
which  Monarchies  arose  must  have  grown  and 
gathered  during  many  generations. 

Nor  is  it  in  regard  to  the  peopling  of  Egypt 
alone  that  this  difficulty  meets  us  in  the  face. 
The  existence  in  the  days  of  Abraham  of  such  an 
organized  government  as  that  of  Chedorlaomer, 
shows  that  2000  years  B.C.  there  flourished  in 
Elam,  beyond  Mesopotamia,  a  nation  which  even 
now  would  be  ranked  among  "the  Great  Powers." 
And  if  nations  so  great  had  thus  arisen,  altogether 
unnoticed  in  the  Hebrew  narrative — if  we  are  left 
to  gather  as  best  we  may  from  other  sources  all 
our  knowledge  of  their  origin  and  growth — how 
much  more  is  this  true  of  far  distant  lands  over 
which  the  advancing  tide  of  human  population  had 
rolled,  or  was  then  rolling  its  mysterious  wave! 


390  THE  DITKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

If  the  most  ancient  and  sacred  literature  of  the 
world  tells  iis  so  little  of  the  early  history  of  the 
men  who  lived  and  flourished  on  the  banks  of  the 
Euphrates,  the  Tigris,  or  the  Nile,  what  informa- 
tion can  we  expect  to  find  in  it  respecting  those 
who  were  probably  already  settled  on  the  Indus 
and  the  Ganges,  or  were  spreading  along  the 
banks  of  the  Brahmaputra  and  of  the  Yellow 
River?  "What  of  those  tribes  who  were  following 
the  Volga  and  the  Oxus,  or  the  Danube  and  the 
Rhine?  What  of  that  vast  continent  whose  se- 
crets are  being  revealed  at  last  only  in  our  day — 
the  Continent  of  Africa?  When  and  how  did  that 
Negro  Race  begin,  which  is  both  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  one  of  the  most  strongly-marked 
among  the  varieties  of  Man?  And  what  again, 
can  we  leaVn  from  Genesis  of  the  peopling  of  the 
New  World?  Wlien  did  Man  first  com  3  upon  the 
inland  seas  of  America,  and  follow  the  great 
rivers  which  fall  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico? — Pri- 
meval Man,  Part  III. 

THE    DELUGE. 

There  is  another  civilization  which  appears  to 
have  been  almost  as  ancient  as  that  of  Egypt,  and 
which  has  been  far  more  enduring.  The  authentic 
records  of  the  Chinese  Empire  are  said  to  begin 
in  the  twenty-fourth  century  B.C. — that  is,  more 
than  300  years  before  the  time  of  Abraham. 
They  begin,  too,  ajiparently  with  a  Kingdom  al- 
ready established,  with  a  capital  city,  and  a  set- 
tled government.  Yet  this  civilization  first  ap- 
pears at  the  farthest  extremity  of  Asia,  separated 
by  many  thousands  of  miles,  and  by  some  of  the 
most  impassable  regions  of  the  globe,  from  the 
cradle  of  the  Human  Race,  and  from  the  country 
where  Noah  and  his  family  were  saved. 

Such  facts  seem  to  point  to  one  or  other  of  two 
conclusions:  Either  that  the  Flood  must  have 
happened  at  a  period  in  the  history  of  Man  vastly 
earlier  than  any  that  has  been  usually  supposed; 
or  else,  that  the  Flood  destroyed  only  a  small  por- 
tion of  the  Human  Family.  That  the  Deluge  af- 
fected only  a  small  portion  of  the  globe  which  is 
noic  hahitahle,  is  almost  certain.     But  this  is  quito 


THE  DUKE  OF  AK(^YLL.  CUl 

a  different  thing  from  supposing  that  the  Fkiod 
affected  only  a  small  portion  of  the  world  which 
was  then  inhabited.  The  wide,  if  not  the  univer- 
sal prevalence  among  heathen  nations,  of  a  tra- 
dition preserving  the  memory  of  some  such  gi-eat 
catastrophe,  has  always  been  considered  to  indi- 
cate recollection  carried  by  descent  from  the  sur- 
viving few.  And  this  tradition  seems  to  be 
curiously  strong  and  definite  among  tribes  which 
are  now  separated  by  half  the  circumference  of 
the  globe  from  the  regions  affected  by  the  Flood, 
— Primeval  Man,  Part  III. 

MAN   AS    THE    REPRESEXTATIVE    OF    THE    SUPER- 
NATUKAL. 

The  denial  and  exclusion  of  what  is  called 
"The  Supernatural"  in  our  exjilanations  of  Na- 
ture is  the  same  doctrine,  in  another  form,  as  the 
denial  and  exclusion  of  Anthropopsychism.  The 
connection  may  not  be  evident  at  lirst  sight,  but 
it  arises  from  the  fact  that  the  human  Mind  is 
really  the  type,  and  the  only  type,  of  what  men 
call  the  Supernatural.  It  would  be  well  if  this 
word  were  altogetlier  banished  from  our  vocabu- 
lary. It  is  in  the  highest  degree  ambiguous  and 
deceptive.  It  assumes  that  the  "System  of  Na- 
ture "  in  which  we  live,  and  of  which  we  form  a 
part,  is  limited  to  purely  physical  agencies  linked 
together  by  nothing  but  Mechanical  Necessity. 
There  might  indeed  be  no  harm  in  this  limitation 
of  the  word  Nature  if  it  could  possibly  be  adhered 
to.  But  it  is  not  possible  to  adhere  to  it;  and 
that  for  the  best  of  all  reasons;  because  even  in- 
animate Nature,  as  we  habitually  see  it,  and  are 
obliged  to  speak  of  it,  is  not  a  system  which 
gives  us  the  idea  of  being  governed  by  Mechani- 
cal Necessity. 

No  wonder  men  find  it  difficult  to  believe  in  the 
Supernatural,  if  by  the  Supernatural  they  mean 
any  Agency  which  is  nowhere  present  in  the  visi- 
ble and  intelligible  Universe,  or  is  not  implicitly 
represented  and  continually  reproduced  there. 
I^or  indeed  in  this  sense  no  Christian  can  l^elieve 
in  the  Supernatural — in  a  Creation  from  which 
the  Creator  has  been  banished,  or  has  withdrawn 


392  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 

Himself.  On  the  other  hand,  if  by  the  Supernat- 
ural we  mean  an  Agency  which,  while  ever  j)res- 
ent  in  the  material  and  intelligible  Universe,  is 
not  confined  to  it,  but  transcends  it,  then  indeed 
the  difficulty  is  not  in  the  believing  of  it,  but  in 
the  disbelieving  of  it.  No  man  can  really  hold 
that  the  Material  System  which  is  visible  or  intel- 
ligible to  us  is  anything  more  than  a  fragment  or 
a  part.  No  man  can  believe  that  its  existing 
arrangements  of  Matter  and  of  Force  ai'e  self- 
caused,  self-originated,  and  self-sustained.  It  is 
not  possible,  therefore,  so  to  "crib,  cabin,  and 
confine"  our  conceptions  of  Nature  as  to  exclude 
elements  which  essentially  belong  to  what  is  called 
the  Supernatural. 

And  there  is  another  reason  why  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  adhere  to  such  conceptions  of  the  Natural; 
and  that  is.  that  it  would  compel  us  to  exclude 
the  3Iind  of  Man — and  indeed  the  lesser  minds  of 
all  living  things — from  our  scientific  definition  of 
Nature,  and  to  establish  an  absolute  and  rigid 
separation  between  all  these  and  the  world  in 
which  they  move  and  act.  We  have  seen  not  only 
how  impracticable  such  a  separation  is,  but  how 
false  it  is  to  the  facts  of  Science.  The  same  con- 
demnation must  fall  on  every  conception  of  the 
Universe  which  assumes  this  separation  as  not 
only  important  but  fundamental. 

Yet  this  is  the  very  separation  on  which  those 
philosophers  absolutely  depend  who  condemn 
what  they  call  the  Supernatural  in  our  concep- 
tions and  explanations  of  the  world.  And  in  the 
interest  of  their  ovm  argument  they  are  quite 
right  in  keeping  to  this  separation  as  indispens- 
able to  their  purpose.  In  order  to  exclude  from 
Nature  what  they  call  the  Supernatural,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  they  should  in  the  first 
place  exclude  Man.  If  Nature  be  nothing  but 
Matter,  Force,  and  Mechanical  Necessity,  then 
Man  belongs  to  the  Suijeniatural,  and  is  indeed 
the  very  embodiment  and  representation  of  it. 
Accordingly  this  identification  of  Man  Avith  the 
Suppviiatural  is  necessarily  and  almost  uncon- 
sciously involved  in  the  language  which  is  in- 
tend-/d   to  be  strictly  philosophical,  and  in  the 


LUDOVICO  AKIOSTO.  393 

most  careful  vitterances  of  our  most  distinguished 
scientific  men. — The  Unity  of  Nature,  Chap.  VIII. 

ARIOSTO,  LuDOVico,  an  Italian  poet,  born 
at  Reggio,  Sept.  8,  1474,  died  at  Ferrara,  June 
6,  1533.  He  was  of  a  noble  family,  and  early- 
displayed  a  high  poetic  capacity.  He  entered 
the  service  of  the  Cardinal  Ippolito  d'Este, 
brother  of  Alfonso,  Duke  of  Ferrara,  by  whom 
he  was  sent  on  important  embassies  to  the 
court  of  the  warlike  Pope  Julius  II.  When 
the  papal  forces,  in  conjunction  with  those 
of  Venice,  were  sent  against  Ferrara,  Ariosto 
bore  a  prominent  part  in  the  defence  of  his 
adopted  city.  Cardinal  Ippolito  took  offence 
at  Ai'iosto,  in  1518,  because  he  declined  to  go 
with  him  to  Hungary,  and  dismissed  him 
from  his  service.  He  soon  afterward  entered 
the  service  of  Duke  Alfonso,  in  whose  favor 
and  confidence  he  rose  high,  and  showed 
marked  capacity  when  made  Governor  of 
the  province  of  Graffagnana,  which  was  in  a 
disturbed  condition.  Returning  to  Ferrara, 
Ariosto  was  employed  by  the  Duke  to  direct 
the  dramatic  representations  there,  and  a 
magnificent  theatre  was  constructed  after  de- 
signs suggested  by  the  poet.  This  theatre 
was  bunded  in  1583. 

The  works  of  Ariosto  include  comedies, 
satires,  sonnets,  and  other  writings.  But  his 
principal  work  is  the  romantic  epic  Orlando 
Furioso,  a  sort  of  continuation  of  Bojardo's 
Orlando  Inamorato.  This  poem  was  origi- 
nally i^ublished  in  1516,  but  was  considerably 
enlarged  in  later  editions,  the  last  of  which 
appeared  in  1632,  a  year  before  the  death  of 
the  author,  and  has  been  many  times  re- 
printed. The  poem  became  very  popular  in 
Italy,  and  is  recognized  as  the  greatest  Avork 
of  the  kind  in  any  language.  Bernardo 
Tasso,  in  1559,  wrote  of  it:  "There  is  neither 


C9i  LUDOVICO  ARIOSTO. 

scholar  nor  artisan,  boy  nor  girl,  nor  old  man, 
who  is  contented  with  reading  it  only  once. 
Do  you  not  hear  people  every  day  singing  these 
stanzas  in  the  streets  and  in  the  fields  i  I  do 
not  believe  that  in  the  same  length  of  time  as 
has  passed  since  this  poem  was  given  to  the 
world,  there  have  been  printed  or  published 
or  seen  so  many  Homers  or  Virgils  as  Furio- 
sos. "  The  poem  consists  of  forty-six  cantos, 
containing  in  all  about  5000  eight-line  stan- 
zas. Its  subject  is  the  numerous  adventures 
of  Orlando,  who  had  become  insane  through 
love  for  Angelica. 

ORLANDO'S   CATTLE    WITH  THE   TREES. 

All  nif^ht  about  the  forest  roved  the  Count, 
And,  at  the  break  of  daily  light,  was  brought 

By  his  viiihappy  fortune  to  the  fount, 

Where  his  inscription  young  Medoro  wrovight. 

To  see  his  wrongs  inscribed  upon  that  mount 
Inflamed  his  fury  so,  in  him  was  naught 

But  turned  to  hatred,  frenzy,  rage,  and  spite; 

Nor  paused  he  more,  but  bared  his  falchion  bright; 

Cleft  through  the  writing,  and  the  solid  block 
Into  the  sky  in  tiny  fragments  sped. 

Woe  worth  each  sapling,  and  that  caverned  rock. 
Where  Medoro  and  Angelica  were  read ! 

So  scathed  that  tliey  to  shepherd  and  to  flock 
Thenceforth  shall  never  furnish  shade  or  bed, 

And  that  sweet  fountain,  late  so  clean  and  pure 

From  such  tempestuous  wrath  was  ill  secure. 

For  he  turf,  stone,  and  trunk,  and  shoot  and  lop, 
Cast  without  cease  into  the  beauteous  source; 

Till  turbid  from  the  bottom  to  the  top, 
Xever  again  was  clear  the  ti'oubled  coiu'se. 

At  length,  for  lack  of  breath,  compelled  to  stop — 
When  he  is  bathed  in  sweat,  and  wasted  force 

Serves  not  his  fury  more — befalls,  and  lies 

Upon  the  mead,  and  gazing  upward  sighs. 

Wearied  and  woe-begone,  he  fell  to  ground. 
And  tinned  his  eyes  to  heaven,  nor  spake  he 
aught, 


LUDOVICO  ARIOSTO.  395 

Nor  ate,  nor  slept,  till  in  Ins  daily  round 

The  golden  sun  had  broken  thrice,  and  sought 

Ilis  rest  anew;  nor  ever  ceased  his  wound 
To  rankle,  till  it  marred  his  sober  thought. 

At  length,  impelled  by  frenzy,  the  fourth  day, 

He  from  his  limbs  tore  plate  and  mail  away. 

Here  was  his  helmet,  there  his  shield  bestowed, 
His  arms  far  off;  and  farther  than  the  rest. 

His  cuirass;  through  the  green  wood  wide  was 
strowed, 
All  his  good  gear,  in  fine ;  and  next  his  vest 

He  rent;  and,  in  his  fury  naked  showed 
His    shaggy    paunch,   and    all    his    back    and 
breast, 

And  'gan  that  frenzy  act  so  passing  dread: 

Of  stranger  folly  never  shall  be  said. 

So  fierce  his  rage,  so  fierce  his  fury  grew, 
That    all    obscured    remained    the     warrior's 
sprite ; 

Nor,  for  forgetf ulness,  his  sword  he  drew. 

Or  wondrous  deeds,  I  trow,  had   wrought  the 
Knight. 

But  neither  this,  nor  bill,  nor  axe  to  hew, 
Was  needed  by  Orlando's  peerless  might. 

He  of  high  prowess  gave  high  proofs  and  full. 

Who  a  tall  pine  uprooted  at  a  pull. 

He  many  others,  with  as  little  let. 

As  fennel,  wallwort-stem,  or  dill,  uptore; 

And  ilex,  knotted  oak,  and  fir  upset. 
And   beech,    and    mountain-ash    and    clm-trce 
hoar. 

He  did  what  fowler,  ere  he  spreads  his  net, 
Does,  to  prepare  the  champaigne  for  his  lore. 

By  stubble,  rush,  and  nettle  stalk ;  and  broke. 

Like  these,  old  sturdy  trees  and  stems  of  oak. 

The  shepherd  swains,  who  hear  the  tumult  nigli. 
Leaving  their   Hocks    beneath     the  greenwood 
tree. 

Some  here,  some  there,  across  the  forest  hie. 
And  hurry  thither,  all,  the  cause  to  see. — 

But  I  have  reached  such  point,  my  history, 
If  I  o'erpass  this  bound,  may  irksome  be; 


39G  LUDOYICO  AKIOSTO. 

And  T  my  story  will  delay  to  end, 
Kather  than  bjMTiy  tediousness  offend. 
— Canto  XX III.,  Traiisl.  o/EosE. 

OKLANDO   RESTORED   TO   HIS   SENSES. 

Dudon,  Orlando  from  behind  embraced, 
And  Avitli    his  foot    the     furious  peer    would 
throw; 

Astolpho  .and  the  others  seize  his  arms ;  but  waste 
Their  strength  in  all  attempts  to  hold  the  foe. 

He  who  has  seen  a  bull,  by  mastiffs  chased, 
That  gore  his  bleeding  ears,  in  fury  lowe. 

Dragging  the  dogs  that  bait  him  there  and  here, 

Yet  from  their  tusks  unable  to  get  clear; 

Let  him  imagine,  so  Orlando  drew 
Astolpho  and  tliosc  banded  knights  alon^. 

Meanwhile,  up  started  Oliviero,  who 
By  that  fell  fisticuff  on  earth  was  flung; 

And,  seeing  they  could  ill  by  Koland  do 

lliai  sought  by  good  Astolpho  and  his  throng, 

He  meditates  and  compasses  a  way 

The  frantic  Paladin  on  earth  to  lay. 

He  many  a  hawser  made  them  thither  bring, 
And  running  knots  in  them  he  quickly  tied, 

Which  on  the  Count's  waist,  arms,  and  legs,  they 
fling; 
And  then,  among  themselves,  the  ends  divide, 

Conveyed  to  this  or  that  amid  the  ring. 
Compassing  Roland  upon  every  side. 

The  warriors  thus  Orlando  flung  par  force, 

As  farrier  throws  the  struggling  ox  or  horse. 

As  soon  as  down,  they  all  upon  him  are. 

And  hands  and  feet  more  tightly  they  constrain. 

He  shakes  himself,  and  plunges  here  and  there; 
But  all  his  efforts  for  relief  are  vain. 

Astolpho  bade  them  thence  the  prisoner  bear: 
For  he  would  heal,  he  said,  the  warrior's  brain. 

Shouldered  by  sturdy  Dudon  is  the  load, 

And  on  the  beach's  furthest  brink  bestowed. 

Seven    times    Astolpho    makes    them    wash  the 
Knight; 
And  seven  times  plunged  beneath  the  brine  he 
eroes. 


LUDOVICO  ARIOSTO.  397 

So  that  tliey  floaiiso  away  the  sriirf  and  blight 
Whifli  to  his  atnpiil  limlis  and  visage  <;r<)\vs. 

This  done,  witli  herbs,  for  that  oecasidii  di.uht, 
They  stop    his  mouth,  wherewith  lie  puffs  and 
blows. 

For,  save  his  nostrils,  would  Astolidio  leave 

No  passage  whence  the  Count  might  air  receive. 

Valiant  Astolpho  had  prepared  the  vase 
Wherein  Orlando's  senses  were  retained, 

And  to  his  nostrils  in  such  mode  conveys, 

That,     drawing     in     his     breath,    the    County 
drained 

The  mystic  cup  withal. — Oh,  wondrous  case! 
The  unsettled  mind  its  ancient  seat  regained; 

And  in  its  glorious  reasonings,  yet  more  clear 

And  lucid  waxed  his  reason  than  whilero. 

As  one  that  seems  in  troubled  sleep  to  see 

Abominable  shapes,  a  horrid  crew; 
Monsters  which  are  not,  and  which  cannot  be; 

Or  seems  some  strange  unlawful  thing  to  do; 
Yet  marvels  at  himself,  from  slumber  free. 

When  his  recovered  senses  play  him  true; 
So  good  Orlando,  when  he  is  made  sound, 
liemains  yet  full  of  wonder  and  astound. 

Then  said — as  erst  Silenus  said,  when  seen, 
And  taken  sleeping  in  the  cave  of  yore — 

Sobjite  m(' !  with  visage  so  serene, 
With  look  so  much  less  wayward  tlian  before, 

That  him  they  from  his  bonds  delivered  clean, 
And  raiment  to  the  naked  warrior  bore; 

All  comforting  their  friend  with  grief  oi)prest, 

For  that  delusion  which  had  him  possest. 

When  to  his  former  self  he  was  restored, 

Of  wiser  and  of  manlier  mind  than  e'er. 
From  love  as  well  was  freed  the  enamored  lord; 

And  she,  so  gentle  deemed,  so  fair  whilere, 
And  by  renowned  Orlando  so  adored. 

Did  but  to  him  a  woithless  thing  appear. 
What  he  through  love  had  lost,  to  re-acquire 
Was  his  whole  study,  was  his  whole  desire. 

—Canto  XXXIX.,  Transl.  o/Rose. 


398  ARISTOPHANES. 

ARISTOPHANES,  the  most  famous  of  the 
Greek  comic  dramatists — the  only  one,  indeed, 
of  whose  works  niore  than  fragments  are  ex- 
tant— was  born,  probably  at  Athens,  about  440 
B.C.,  and  died  there  about  380  B.  c.  Of  his  early 
life  little  has  been  recorded  except  that  he 
seems  to  have  inherited  a  competent  estate, 
and  that  he  began  writing  for  the  stage  while 
quite  young.  His  earliest  work,  The  Revellers, 
not  now  extant,  is  said  to  have  been  produced 
when  the  author  was  about  seventeen,  and 
received  the  second  prize.  His  career  as  a 
dramatist  lasted  some  forty  years,  during 
which  he  produced  between  40  and  50  come- 
dies, of  which  11  still  exist  in  a  condition 
tolerably  perfect.  All  of  tliese  have  been 
translated  into  English,  by  diffex*ent  hands, 
and  with  varying  degrees  of  success. 

The  Comic  Dramatists  of  Athens  exercised 
a  function  in  some  manner  equivalent  to  that 
of  the  popular  Journalists  of  our  day.  Their 
purpose  at  its  best,  as  in  Aristophanes,  was  to 
hit  at  the  scholastic,  social,  and  political  foi- 
bles of  their  time.  Any  head  that  offered  it- 
self was  thought  a  fair  mark.  The  comic 
dramatist  of  Athens,  had  he  lived  in  our  day, 
would  have  gii'ded  with  equal  readiness  at 
Gladstone  or  Disraeli,  at  Lincoln  or  Davis,  at 
Tennyson  or  Poe,  at  Tupper  or  Milton.  Aris- 
tophanes gibed  alike  at  Cleon  and  Alcibi- 
ades,  at  Socrates  or  Euripides.  The  philoso- 
phy, theology,  and  politics  of  the  time  af- 
forded ready  marks  for  the  humor  and  satire 
of  Aristophanes.  His  satire  sometimes  de- 
genei-ates  to  buffoonery,  and  not  unfrequently 
there  is  a  vein  of  coarseness  running  through 
it.  Yet  when  we  compare  him  with  the  Eng- 
lish Comic  Dramatists — not  to  say  of  the  pe- 
riod of  the  Restoration,  but  with  those  of  our 
own  day — we  can  hardly  characterize  his 
comedies     as   grossly    indecent.      Scattered 


AKIbTOrilANES.  399 

through  them— and  put  mainly  into  the 
mouths  of  the  Chorus— are  bits  of  lyrics  which 
remind  us,  and  at  no  very  wide  interval,  of 
the  best  things  of  the  kind  to  be  found  in 
Shakespeare.  Four  of  the  Comedies  of  Aris- 
tophanes may  be  selected  as  affording  the  fair- 
est idea  of  their  varied  character.  These  are 
The  Birds,  The  Clouds,  The  Frogs,  and  The 
Knights. 

The  Birds  is  one  of  the  longest  of  the  Com- 
edies of  Aristophanes,  and  the  one  which  he  is 
said  to  have  considered  the  best  of  them  all. 
At  first  view  it  reads  to  us  like  an  ' '  extrava- 
ganza," or  burlesque  upon  the  popular  my- 
thology. But  there  are  not  wanting  critics 
who  find  an  esoteric  meaning  couched  beneath 
the  surface.  Thus  the  Rev.  W.  Lucas  Col- 
lins says:  "There  is  also  a  deeper  political 
meaning  imder  what  appears  otherwise  a  mere 
fantastic  trifling.  It  may  be  that  the  great 
Sicilian  expedition,  and  the  ambitious  project 
of  Alcibiades  for  extending  the  Athenian  em- 
pire, form  the  real  point  of  the  play ;  easily 
enough  comprehended  by  contemporaries, 
but  become  obscure  to  us."  So  critics  have 
treated  of  Gulliver's  Travels ;  but  it  is  safe 
enough  for  us  to  read  The  Birds,  as  most  of 
us  read  The  Voyage  to  Lilipid,  to  which  it 
bears  a  sort  of  likeness,  without  trying  to 
dive  below  the  surface. 

The  plot  of  the  comedy  of  The  Birds  is 
briefly  this:  Peisthetaerus  ("Plausible")  and 
Euelpides  ("Hopeful")  are  two  citizens  of 
Athens,  who  have  become  disgusted  with  the 
way  things  ai-e  going  on  at  home,  and  resolve 
to  find  a  new  abode  where  there  are  no  law- 
suits and  no  informers.  They  have  learned 
that  there  is  somewhere  a  Bird-Kingdom, 
ruled  over  by  King  Epojis  ("Hoopoe "),  who 
had  formerly  been  no  other  than  Tereus,  King 
of  Thrace,  but  had  been  transformed  into  that 


400  AllISTO."'nANES. 

magnificently  crested  feathered  biped,  which 
he  now  was.  Guided  by  a  raven  and  a  jack- 
daw the  Athenians  reach  the  royal  abode  of 
King  Epops,  with  which  they  are  well-pleased, 
and  where  they  are  themselves  transformed 
into  birds.  With  the  assent  of  the  King  they 
resolve  to  build  a  new  bird-city,  to  which  they 
give  the  name  of  Nephelococcygia  ("  Cloud- 
cuckooville  ''),  where  they  expect  to  hold  the 
balance  of  power  in  the  universe.  If  Zeus 
and  the  other  gods  of  Olympus  venture  to  of- 
fend the  Birds,  they  will  "blockade  them, 
cut  off  their  supplies,  and  starve  them  into 
submission."  Here  comes  in  a  long  choral 
song  by  the  Birds: 

TUE  BIKD  CHORUS. 

Ye  children  of  Man,  whose  life  is  a  span, 
Protracted  with  sorrow  from  day  to  day, 
Naked  and  featlicrless,  feeble  and  querulous, 
Sickly  calamitous  creatures  of  clay ! 
Attend  to  the  words  of  the  sovereign  Birds, 
Immortal,  illustrious  Lords  of  the  Air; 
Who  survey  from  on  high,  with  a  mercifid  eye, 
Your  struggles  of  misery,  labor,  and  care. 
Whence  you  may  learn,  and  cleai-ly  discern, 
Such  truths  as  attract  your  inquisitive  turn; 
Wliich  is  busied  of  late,  with  a  mighty  debate, 
A  profound  speculation  about  the  creation, 
And  organical  life,  and  chaotical  strife. 
With  various  notions  of  heavenly  motions 
And  rivers  and  oceans,  and  valleys  and  mountains. 
And  stars  in  the  sky.  .  .  .  We  propose  by  and  by 
(If  you'll  listen  and  hear)  to  make  it  all  clear. 

The  Birds  go  on,  at  some  length,  to  set  forth 
their  predominance  in  the  general  scheme  of 
the  universe ;  and  then  pass  on  to  show  how 
they  have  been  the  instructors  of  Man  in  al- 
most aU  that  he  knows  which  is  worth  the 
knowing. 


ARISTOPHANES.  401 

All  lessons  of  primary  daily  concern 

You  have  learned  from  the  Birds,  and  continue  to 

learn ; 
Tour  best  benefactors  and  early  instructors, 
We  give  you  the  vrarning  of  seasons  returning: 
When  the  Cranes  are  arranged,  and  muster  afloat, 
In  the  middle  air,  with  a  creaking  note, 
Steering  away  to  the  Libyan  sands. 
Then  careful  farmers  sow  their  lands; 
The  crazy  vessel  is  hauled  ashore, 
The  sails,  the  ropes,  the  rudder,  and  oar 
Are  all  unshipped,  and  housed  in  store. 
The  shepherd  is  warned,  by  the  Kite  reappearing, 
To  muster  his  flock,  and  be  ready  for  shea-ing. 
You  quit  your  old  cloak  at  the  Swallow's  behest, 
In  assurance  of  Summer :  and  purchase  a  vest. 

The  list  is  carried  out  to  a  long  extent,  wind- 
ing up  with  the  affirmation : 

Unlucky  or  lucky,  whatever  has  struck  ye — 
An  ox  or  an  ass  that  may  happen  to  pass, 
A  voice  in  the  street,  or  a  slave  that  you  meei;, 
A  name  or  a  word  by  chance  overheard — 
If  you  deem  it  an  omen,  you  call  it  a  Bird; 
And  if  Birds  are  your  omens,  it  clearly  will  follow 
That  Birds  are  a  proper  prophetic  Apollo. 
— Transl.  of  J.  Hookhasi  Fuere. 

Under  the  direction  of  Peisthetserus,  the 
Birds  went  on  rapidly  in  the  building  of 
Cloudcuckooville.  They  flocked  together 
from  all  regions  of  the  earth ;  and  a  messenger 
thus  reports  the  progress  Avhich  they  made : 

There  came  a  body  of  thirty  thousand  Cranes 
(I  won't  be  positive,  there  might  be  more) 
With  stones  from  Africa  in  their  claws  and  giz- 
zards, 
Which  the  Stone-curlews  and  Stone-chatterers 
Worked  into  shape  and  flnished.     The  Sand-mar- 
tens 
And   Mudlarks   too   were   busy  in  their  depart- 
ments. 
Mixing  the  mortar;  while  the  Water-birds, 
26 


402  ARISTOPHANES. 

As  fast  as  it  was  wanted,  brought  the  water, 
To  temper  and  work  it. 

Then  ensue  a  dozen  scenes  full  of  what  was 
doubtless  uproarious  fun  in  Athens  two-and- 
twenty  centuries  ago ;  but  which  sound  rather 
heavily  in  our  ears ;  the  satire  being  aimed  at 
things  which  have  slept  dead  for  many  an 
age.  The  upshot,  as  w^e  get  at  it  near  the 
close  of  the  Comedy,  being  about  this :  There 
has  been  great  trouble  upon  Olympus  ever 
since  the  building  of  the  aerial  city  of  Cloud- 
cuckooville.  Some  of  the  Thracian  gods  are 
notably  wrathful,  and  threaten  mutiny  against 
Jove  himself  unless  he  will  come  to  terms 
with  this  new  Bird-Kingdom.  Tidings  of 
what  is  going  on  are  brought  to  Cloudcuckoo- 
ville  by  a  personage  who  labors  under  no  lit- 
tle embarrassment  in  making  himself  and  his 
mission  known.  He  keeps  an  umbrella  over 
his  head,  so  that  Jove  may  not  by  any  chance 
get  sight  of  him ;  but  at  last  reveals  himself 
as  no  other  than  Prometheus,  the  friend  of 
man  and  the  foe  of  Jove.  The  Prometheus 
of  Aristophanes  bears  little  resemblance  to 
the  Prometheus  depicted  by  JEschylus.  Per- 
haps the  spirit  of  the  scene  which  follows  is 
fairly  enough  presented  in  the  prose  transla- 
tion of  Richard  Cumberland.  The  interlocu- 
tors are  Prometheus,  Peistheteerus,  now  ruler 
in  Cloudcuckooville,  and  the  inevitable  cho- 
rus of  Birds : 

PROMETHEUS   AND   PEISTHETJEEUS. 

Prom.— Ah  me!  I  tremble  every  inch  of  me,  for 
fear  Jove  should  clap  eyes  upon  me.  Where 
can  Peisthetferus  be? 

Pei.sf /j._Holla!  What  can  this  be?  What's  the 
meaning  of  this  fellow's  face  being  so  disguised? 

Prom.— Do  you  see  any  of  the  gods  in  the  rear 
of  me? 

Peisth.—^o,  by  Jove,  not  I.     But  who  are  you? 

Pj-o»j.— Pray,  how  goes  the  time? 


AKISTOPHANES.  403 

Pcifith. — The  time?  The  afternoon  is  just  com- 
mencing.    But  who  are  you? 

Prom. — Is  it  sunset  or  later  than  that? 

Peiisth. — I  don't  like  you;  we  adiTiit  no  dominos 
here. 

Prom. — What  is  Jove  doing?  Is  he  busy  collect- 
ing or  dispersing  his  clouds? 

Peisth. — I  don't  like  to  talk  to  people  whom  I 
don't  know. 

Prom. — If  so,  I'll  disclose  myself.  Here  I  am — 
Prometheus,  at  your  service. 

Peisth. — Heaven  bless  you — Prometheus? 

Prom. — Hush,  hush!    Not  so  loud! 

Peisth.— Why  so? 

Prom. — Silence!  Don't  utter  my  name  again. 
I'm  dished  if  Jove  finds  out  1  am  here.  But  hold; 
I  have  a  good  deal  to  tell  you  about  what  has  been 
going  on  in  the  upper  stories  of  the  sky.  In  tlie 
mean  time  take  this  umbrella  and  hold  it  over  me, 
to  screen  me  from  the  vengeance  of  the  gods. 

Peisth.— Goodl  Excellent!  You  have  contrived 
this  archly  enough,  and  in  true  character.  Haste, 
hie  thee  up  under  cover,  so  that  thou  may'st 
speak  without  fear. 

Prom. — Attend  then. 

Peisth.— Froceed]  I'm  all  attention. 

Prom.—lVs  all  up  wdth  that  old  fellow,  the 
Thunderer. 

Peisth.— From  what  time  is  his  ruin  to  be  dated? 

Prom. — From  the  time  you  walled  the  air  in. 
Since  then  the  devil  of  a  bit  of  flesh-meat  has 
been  offered  to  the  gods  by  way  of  sacrifice. 
Since  that  day  they  have  not  so  much  as  come 
within  the  smell  of  roast-beef.  They  are  obliged 
to  fast,  as  at  the  Thesmophoria.  And  as  for 
the  barbarian  gods,  they  are  reduced  to  such  a 
state  of  starvation  that— in  a  twangling  lllyrian 
sort  of  style— they  gabble  vengeance  against 
Jove  himself;  and  swear  that  unless  he  will 
instantly  throw  the  flesh-market  open,  and  se- 
cure them  access  to  the  tag-rag  and  bobtail  there, 
which  they  have  always  been  accustomed  to,  they 
will  immediately  proceed  to  the  recovery  of  their 
rights  by  force  of  arms. 


404  ARISTOPHANES. 

There  is  some  more  talk,  addressed  to  the 
galleries,  or  what  represented  them  in  the 
Athenian  theatre  ;  and  then  Prometheus 
comes  to  what  was  the  essential  thing  which 
he  had  crept  off  to  communicate  to  the  King 
of  the  Birds,  which  Peisthetserus  has  come 
to  he: 

Prom. — I've  got  anotlier  thing  to  tell  you  be- 
sides. Jove  and  these  fellows  are  going  to  de- 
spatch to  you  two  ambassadors  to  sue  for  a  treaty. 
But  do  you  take  my  advice,  and  enter  upon  no 
treaty  on  any  other  terms  than  these:  That  Jove 
do  resign  his  sceptre  to  the  Birds,  whose  due  it 
is;  and,  moreover,  give  to  you  Queeny  in  mar- 
riage, and  all  the  appurtenances  to  so  great  a 
name. 

Peisth. — And  who  is  this  Queeny? 

Prom. — A  damsel  of  exquisite  beauty;  the  very 
same  who  forges  Jove's  thunderbolts,  and,  in 
fact,  everything  else:  such  as  good  counsel,  im- 
partial law,  prudent  management,  docks,  !il»erty 
to  abuse  superiors,  the  exchequer,  fees  for  hang- 
ing, and  so  forth. 

Peisth. — If  so,  she  docs  him  all  his  little  odds 
and  ends. 

Prom. — No  doubt  of  it.  Get  her  tlien,  and 
you've  got  everything.  This  is  what  I  was  so 
anxious  to  tell  you ;  and  you  know  1  am  partial 
to  mortals;  that  is  my  character. 

Peisth. — Aye,  I  know  that  well  enough.  'Tis 
you  that  gave  us  fire  to  cook  our  victuals  with. 

Prom. — 1  hate  the  gods,  as  you  well  know. 

Peisth. — By  my  faith,  I  don't  think  you  ever 
liked  them. 

Proiit. — Aye,  aye,  I'm  Timon  the  No-goddcr,  to 
the  back-bone.  But  come,  I  must  be  going. 
Hold  up  this  umbrella  so  that  if  Jove  should 
chance  to  see  me,  he  may  think  I  am  one  of 
Athena's  basket-bearers  at  her  great  feast. 

Peisth.— And  take  you  this  camp-chair,  and  go 
ahead. 

The  embassy  from  Jove  soon  arrives. 
There    are   three   members   of    it:  Neptune, 


AKISTOrHANES.  405 

Hercules,  and  a  Thracian  deity,  who  talks 
very  bad  Greek,  and  of  whom  Neptune  is 
rather  ashamed.  We  give  the  metrical  ver- 
sion of  Frere. 

NEPTUNE,   HEKCULES,    AND   THE   THEACIAN   GOD. 

Nep. — There's    Cuckoocloudville!    That's    the 
town. 
The  pohit  we're  bound  to  with  our  embassy. — 
But  you !  what  a  figure  liave  ye  made  of  yourself ! 
What  a  way  to  wear  yovu-  mantle!  slouching  off 
From  the  left  shoulder!     Hitch  it  round,  I  tell  ye, 
On  the  left  side.     For  shame — come — so;  that's 

better; 
These  folds,  too,  bundled  up;  there,  throw  thcrp. 

round 
Even  and  easy — so.     Why,  you're  a  savage — 
A  natural-born  savage !     Oh,  Democracy  I 
What  will  it  bring  us  to,  when  such  a  ruf&an 
Is  voted  into  an  embassy! 

Thracian.— Come,  hands  off!    Hands  off! 
Nep. — Keep  quiet,   I  tell    ye,   and   hold    your 
tongue. 
For  a  very  beast.     In  all  my  life  in  heaven, 
I  never  saw  such  another.     Hercules, 
I  say,  what  shall  we  do?    What  should  you  think? 
Here.    What  would  I  do?  what  do  I  think?  I've 
told  you 
Already — I  think  to  throttle  him — the  fellow 
Whoever  he  is,  that's  keeping  us  blockaded. 
JVep.— Yes,  my  good  friend ;  but  we  were  sent, 
you  know. 
To  treat  for  ])eace.     Our  embassy  is  for  peace. 

Here. — That  makes  no  ditt'erence;  or  if  it  does, 
It  makes  me  long  to  throttle  him  all  the  more. 

But  Peisthetaerus,  King  of  the  Birds,  in 
the  new  Cuckoo  State,  serves  up  a  capital 
dinner  for  the  well-nigh  starved  envoys. 
Whereupon  Hercules  resolves  upon  peace  on 
any  terms.  Neptune  is  otherwise  minded; 
and  the  Thi'acian  god  will  have  the  casting 
vote.  Hercides  takes  him  to  one  side,  and 
promises  him  a  sound  thrashing  in  case  he 


406  ARISTOPHANES. 

does  not  vote  on  his  side.  The  Thracian  god 
is  open  to  argument  of  this  convincing  sort ; 
and  votes  with  Hercules.  A  formal  treaty  is 
thereupon  made,  in  virtue  of  which  Jove 
agrees  to  resign  his  sceptre  to  the  King  of 
the  Birds,  upon  condition  that  there  shall  be 
no  more  embargo  upon  the  sacrificial  meats 
sent  to  Olympus;  and  Peistheta?rus  shall 
have  for  wife  the  lovely  Queeny.  There  is  a 
closing  scene  in  which  Queeny  appears  riding 
in  procession  by  the  side  of  her  spouse,  while 
the  full  Chorus  of  Birds  shout  a  wild  epitha- 
lamiuni,  evidently  full  of  local  hits,  the  points 
of  which  are  hardly  appreciable  in  our  day, 
though  commentators  have  exhausted  their 
learning  in  the  effort  to  elucidate  them. 

We  now  come  to  The  Clouds,  perhaps  the 
best-known  of  all  the  Comedies  of  Aris- 
tophanes. The  satire  is  aimed  at  the  science 
and  the  philosophy  of  the  day.  Socrates  is 
presented  in  anything  but  a  flattering  light. 
He  had,  indeed,  certain  unsavory  personal 
peculiarities,  wiiich  rendered  him  a  notable 
mark  for  satire.  There  is  a  story— quite  as 
likely  to  be  true  as  false— that  upon  the  pre- 
sentation of  this  satire  he  showed  himself  in 
"the  boxes,"  as  we  should  now  say,  so  that 
the  audience  might  see  how  cleverly  he  had 
been  hit  off.  Another  story,  that  the  con- 
demnation of  Socrates  to  death  grew  out  of 
this  satire  by  Aristophanes,  is  quite  easily 
disposed  of  by  the  bare  fact  that  the  condem- 
nation of  Socrates  did  not  occur  imtil  twenty 
years  after  the  production  of  The  Clouds,  a 
drama  which,  in  fact,  was  very  far  from 
being  successful  at  its  production  on  the 
stage,  and  did  not  gain  eitlier  the  first  or  the 
second  prize. 

The  Clouds  is  in  fact  a  burlesque,  although 
there  are  interspei'sed  through  it  some  of  the 
finest  bits  of  lyric  poetry.      Strepsiades,  a 


ARISTOPHANES.  407 

stupid  citizen,  has  fallen  into  pecuniary 
straits,  and  resolves  to  study  eloquence  in 
order  to  be  able  to  get  the  better  of  his  cred- 
itors. He  accordingly  betakes  himself  to  the 
"Thinking  School  "  of  Socrates.  The  gi-eat 
philosopher  is  discovered  suspended  in  a 
basket.  He  conies  down,  and  proceeds  to 
give  some  elementary  instruction,  while  the 
Clouds,  apparently  behind  the  scenes,  occa- 
sionally sing  in  Chorvis.  There  is  certainly 
no  little  of  coarseness  in  this  scene ;  but  it  is 
necessary  to  present  portions  of  it,  in  order 
to  give  a.  fair  idea  of  the  characteristics  of 
Aristophanes.  We  take  the  translation  of 
Mitchell : 

IN   THE   SCHOOL   OF   SOCRATES. 

Chorus  of  Clouds. 
Hail,  ancient  old  man,  who  liast  ventured  to  hunt 

For  learnino-  to  visit  thy  rife  ills! 
And  do  You  too  inform  us  of  all  that  you  want, 

Great  priest  of  ingenious  trifles. 
There's  not  a  philosopher  living  now 

To  whose  prayers  we  would  vouchsafe  attention 
Save  Prodicus  only,  because  we  know 
His  learning  and  wit  and  invention, 
And  You,  on  account  of  your  making  a  fuss 

In  the  streets,  and  peeping  and  prying, 
And  travelling  barefoot,  and  trusting  to  Us, 
Mankind  suspiciously  eyeing. 
Strepslades. 
Good  Earth,  what  melodious  music  they  brew — 
How  decorous  and  wondrous  and  holy. 
Socrates. 
It  is  they  who  alone  are  divinities  true 
And  the  rest  are  but  nonsense  and  folly. 
Strepslades. 
Come,  is  not  Olympian  Jove  a  god? 

Socrates. 
Jove! — Twaddle! — Have  done  with  your  playing 

The  fool! — There's  no  such  i^erson — as  odd 
As  you  think  it. 

Strepslades. 
What's  this  you  are  saying? 


408  AEISTOPHANES. 

Then  who  is  it  rains?    First  answer  me  that, 
Before  von  go  on  with  yonr  treasons. 
Socrates. 
Why  the   Clouds,   to  he  sure;  and   I'll  prove  it, 
that's  flat. 
By  the  most  convincing  of  reasons: — 
When  there  is  not  a  Cloud  to  be  seen  upon  high, 

Did  you  ever  see  Jupiter  raining? — 
Yet  he  ought  to  rain  in  the  open  sky 
When  there  is  not  a  cloud  remaining. 
Strepsiades. 
That  explains  your  assertion  right  well,  as  I  live-, 

You  have  glued  most  skilfully  to  it. 
I  used  to  imagine  that  Jove  had  a  sieve, 

And  emptied  his  bladder-bag  through  it. — 
But  who  is  it  thunders,  and  makes  such  a  rout? 
For  that's  what  compels  me  to  tremble. 
Socrates. 
'Tis  the  Clouds  who  thunder,  when  rolling  about. 
Strepsiades. 
How  comes  that?    You  shall  not  dissemble. 
Socrates. 
When  choakful  of  water  and  hung  in  the  air, 

They  are  forced  into  motion,  they  tumble 
With  fury,  perforce,  on  each  other,  and  there 
They  burst  with  a  terrible  rumble. 
Strejisiades. 
But  is  it  not  Jove,  by  whose  arm  from  afar 
They  are  forced,  my  good  friend,  into  motion? 
Socrates. 
No,  certainly  not.     'Tis  ethereal  Jar. 

Stre2'>siades. 
Jar! — Well  now,  I  had  not  a  notion, 

That  Jove  was  deceased,  and  Jar  was  now  king 
In  his  place  I — What  an  ignorant  blunder! 

But  you  have  pot  taught  me  a  single  thing 
Concerning  the  rumbling  of  thunder. 

Socrates. 
Now  did  you  not  hear  me  declare  that  the  Clouds 

Come  tumbling  with  furious  intenseness 
On   each   other    when    tilled    with    their   waterj 
loads. 
And  rumble  because  of  their  denseness? 
Stre2)slades, 
What  proof  is  there  of  it? 


ARISTOPHANES.  409 

Socrateti. 

ril  prove  it  with  ease, 
From  your  oAvn  body,  1  tell  ye : 
Did  you  ever  swill  soup  till  it  kicked  up  a  breeze 
Aud  a  vehement  stir  in  your  belly? 
Strcpaiades. 
To  be  sure;  aud  my  belly  is  instantly  roused 

And  lost  in  indignant  wonder; 
And  the  rascally  jorum  of  soup  I  have  boused 
Groans,  rumbles,  and  bellows  like  thunder; 
First  (quietly — piqmx,  pdpax,  and  then 
Papdpax,  till  at  last  the  chap  packs. 
When  he  meets  with  a  vent,  from  his  flatulent  den, 
With  a  thunderin*;'  loud  papapdppax.  . 
Socrates. 
If  a  poor  little  Belly  can  utter  such  g'roans, 

AVhen  it  lets  out  a  trumper  from  under. 
How  much  more  must  the  infinite  Air?    And  the 
nouns 
Are  alike  too — Tnimper  and  Thunder. 
Strepsiades. 
But    from    whence    are    the    fiery    thunderbolts 
whirled. 
That  reduce  us  to  aslies,  and  merely 
Singe  other's  alive? — They  are  hurled 
By  Jove  at  the  perjurers,  clearly. 
Socrates. 
You  old-fashioned  bekke-diluvian  dolt! 

If  .Jupiter  hurls  them  to  floor  us 
For  forswearing,  why  does  he  not  launch  a  bolt 

At  rieonymus,  Simon,  Theoris? 
They  are  terrible  perjurers,  every  one  knows; 

Yet  they  never  have  met  with  their  death  hence, 
But  he  blasts  his  own  fane,   in  the  place  of   his 

foes, 
And  "Sunium,  headland  of  Athens,'' 

And   the   crests   of   the   imiocent    oaks   of   the 
wood : — 
And  for  what  reason? — An  oak  can't  be  perjured. 

Strepsiades. 
I  am   siire  I   don't  know;  but  your  argument's 
good. — 
In  what  way  is  the  thunderbolt  nurtured? 
Socrates. 
When  an  arid  wind  is  upraised  from  below, 


410  AraSTOPIIANES. 

And  enclosed  in  the  Clouds,  its  capacity 
To  inflate  them  like  bladders  is  called  in,  and  so 

It  bursts  them  in  two,  of  necessity; 
And  rushes  outside  with  a  vehement  force, 

From  its  density  wlien  it  has  rent  'em; 
Consuming  and  burning  itself  on  its  course 

By  its  friction  and  noise  and  momentum. 
Strejisiades. 
I've  been  treated  myself  in  the  very  same  way, 

By  Apollo,  on  many  occasions! 
I  neglectetl  to  nick  a  haggis  one  day 

I  was  roasting  to  dine  my  I'elations; 
When  it  puffed  up,  and  suddenly  to  my  surprise 

Burst  open  in  tatters,  and  nearly 
Deprived  me  of  sight  by  a  spurt  in  my  eyes, 

And  scalded  my  face  most  severely. 
Chorus  of  Clouds. 
O  mortal,  who  longest  for  wisdom  and  wit, 

I  foresee  by  my  powers  of  prescience 
That  you'll  rise  to  be  wealthy  and  fortunate  yet, 

Amongst  the  Athenians  and  Grecians; 
If  your  memory's  good,  and  you  wish  and  desire 

To  be  constantly  thinking  and  talking; 
And  are  furnished  with  patience,  and  never  tire 

Of  standing,  or  running,  or  walking; 
And  are  neither  tormented  by  cold,  nor  pine, 

Like  poor  silly  wretches,  for  breakfast; 
And  abstain  from  the  public  walks  and  from  wine, 

And  tlie  follies  that  make  one  a  rake  fast; 
And  long  for  that  most  which  is  longed  for  among 

The  talented  men  of  all  nations : — 
To   conquer  in   tights   that   are  fought  with   the 
tongue, 

And  intrigues  and  debates  and  orations. 
Strepsiades. 
As  regards  the  reposing  in  comfortless  huts, 

And  a  spirit  too  sturdy  to  clamor. 
And  hard-living,  thrifty,  and  mint-dining  guts, 

I  can  stand,  like  an  anvil  the  hammer. 
Socrates. 
Of  course  then  you'll  only  believe  in  the  gods 

That  are  owned  by  your  newly-found  brothers — 
The   Chaos    you   see,   and  the  Tongue,   and   the 
Clouds ; 

These  three  we  allow  and  no  others. 


AElfc>TOriIANEfc.  411 

Strepsiadcs. 
I  would  not,  Sir,  even  converse  with  the  rest; 

No,  not  if  we  met  them  in  the  city ; 
Or  bestow  on  the  rogues,  at  their  earnest  request, 
Wines,  victims,  or  incense,  in  pity. 
Chorus  of  Clouds. 
Now  tell  us  what  'tis  that  you  want  us  to  do, 

And  don't  be  afraid;  for  we  never 
Will  refuse  to  comply  with  your  wishes,  if  you 
Eespect  us,  and  tiy  to  be  clever. 
iStrej)sia<Jefi. 
My  adorable  mistresses,  grant  to  me,  then, 

Tliis  smallest  of  all  requisitions: — 
I  wish  to  become  the  most  eloquent  man, 
By  a  hundred  miles,  of  all  the  Grecians. 
Chorus  of  Clouds. 
We  will  grant  it  you ;  so  from  the  present  day 

Not  a  soul  of  the  demagogue  crew  shall 
Carry  so  many  motions,  by  means  of  his  sway 
In  the  Public  Assembly,  as  you  shall. 
St,rej>siades. 
No  carrying  motions  for  me,  I  entreat. 

But  there's  nothing  I  long  for  so  much  as 
To  be  able  to  wriggle  through  actions  and  cheat, 
And  slip  through  my  creditors'  clutches. 
Chorus  of  Clouds. 
You  shall  have  what  you  wish,  for  your  prayer 
and  request 
Is  such  as  becomes  our  dependants. 
So  boldly  deliver  yourself  to  the  best 
Of  instructors — our  faithful  attendants. 
Strex>siades. 
I  will,  in  reliance  on  yoii:  for  I  needs 

Must  act  in  the  way  that  you  bid  me. 
On  account  of  those  rascally  I-bianded  steeds, 
And  the  jade  of  a  wife  who  undid  me. 

Strepsiades  however  proves  a  very  dull  pu- 
pil, and  Socrates  turns  him  out  of  the  school 
as  an  incorrigible  dunce,  who  cannot  master 
the  science  of  Roguery.  His  son  Phoidippi- 
des,  who  has  an  unmistakable  turn  for  ras- 
cality, is  admitted  to  the  school,  and  becomes 
an  adept  in  all  the  tricks  of  the  Courts.     Ho 


412  ARISTOPHANES. 

is  never  at  a  loss  for  legal  means  to  fob  off 
his  own  creditors  and  those  of  his  father. 
Finally,  however,  he  faUs  into  a  quarrel  with 
the  old  gentleman,  gives  him  a  sound  drub- 
bing, and  undertakes  to  justify  his  unfilial 
conduct  on  the  plea  that  his  father  had  often 
drubbed  him  when  he  was  a  child.  Strep- 
siades  responds  as  best  he  can ;  but  gets  bet- 
ter than  he  gave : 

Strep. — Ay,  but  I  did  it  for  your  good. 
Pheid. —  No  doubt: 

And  pray,  am  I  not  also  right  to  show 
Good  will  to  you — if  beating  means  good  will  ? 
Why  should  your  back  escape  the  rod,  I  ask  you, 
Any  more  than  mine  did  ?  Was  not  I,  forsooth, 
Born  like  yourself  a  free  Athenian  ? — 
Perhaps  you'll  say,  beating's  the  rule  for  children. 
I  answer,  that  an  old  man's  twice  a  child; 
And  it  is  fair  the  old  should  have  to  howl 
More  than  poor  children,  when  they  get  into  mis- 
chief, 
Because  there's  ten  times  less  excuse  for  the  old 
ones. 
Strep.— There  never  was  a  law  to  beat  die's 

father. 
Pheid. — Law  ?    Pray  who  made  the  law  ?  a  man 
I  suppose, 
Like  you  or  me  and  so  persuaded  others. 
Why  have  not  I  as  good  a  right  as  he  had 
To  Start  a  law  for  future  generations 
That  sons  should  beat  their  fathers  in  return  ? 
We  shall  be  liberal  too,  if  all  the  stripes 
You  laid  upon  us  before  the  law  was  made 
We  make  you  a  present  of,  and  don't  repay  them.— 
Look  at  the  young  cocks,  and  all  other  ci'catures: 
They  light  their  fathers;  and  what  difference  is 

there 
'Twixt  them  and  us,  save  that  they  don't  make 
laws  ? 

Strepsiades  has  no  argument  in  reply  to 
this  specious  one  of  his  hopeful  son.  He  hies 
to    the    thinking    school,   imprecates  curses 


AlUSTOrilANES.  413 

upon  Socrates,  and  appeals  to  the  Clouds, 
who,  he  says,  have  terribly  misled  him.  The 
Clouds  reply,  in  a  mocking  chorvis,  that  he 
had  got  no  more  than  he  deserved ;  he  had 
sought  to  be  instructed  in  the  arts  of  trickery ; 
and  the  teachings  had  come  back  to  roost  at 
his  own  door.  Strepsiades,  however,  gets  the 
best  of  it  in  the  end.  He  summons  his  slaves 
who  set  fire  to  the  school-building ;  and  the 
comedy  closes  with  a  grand  scenic  tableau,  of 
the  burning  edifice,  with  Socrates  and  his  half- 
smothere'l  pupils  shrieking  from  the  windows. 

In  the  comedy  of  The  Frogs  there  is  plenty 
of  broad  farce ;  but  the  satire  is  a  serious  one, 
the  point  of  it  being  directed  mainly  against 
Euripides,  though  there  are  hits  at  Sophocles 
and  ^schylus. 

Bacchus,  the  patron  divinity  of  the  drama, 
is  dissatisfied  with  the  condition  of  the  stage 
since  the  death  of  Euripides,  and  resolves  to 
set  out  for  Hades  and  bring  back  a  trage- 
dian. After  an  infinity  of  farcical  advent- 
ures, especially  at  the  passage  of  the  Styx, 
Bacchus  reaches  the  Court  of  Pluto,  whei-e  he 
finds  Euripides  and  ^schylus  disputing  as  to 
which  is  the  greater  poet  and  shall  have  the 
chief  seat  at  table.  Pluto  has  made  up  his 
mind  that  there  shall  be  a  public  disputation 
between  the  rivals;  and  now  that  Bacchus 
has  opportunely  turned  up  in  the  Lower  Re- 
gions, he  is  the  very  one  to  settle  the  matter. 
Pluto,  moreover,  promises  that  the  poet  to 
whom  Bacchus  shall  award  the  palm,  shall  be 
permitted  to  return  Avith  him  to  the  Upper 
World.  The  contest  takes  place  in  full  divan. 
Bacchus  presiding,  and  the  Chorus  of  Frogs 
cheering  on  the  competitors  alternately.  The 
contest  is  too  long  to  be  given  in  full.  We 
present  some  of  its  main  features,  as  trans- 
lated by  Frere.  At  the  very  outset  Bacchus 
has  to  check  the  disputants : 


41-1  ARISTOPHANES. 

BACCHUS,    EURIPIDES,   AND   .ESCHYLUS. 

Bac. — Come,  have  a  care,  my  friend. — You'll  say 
too  much. 

Eur. — 1  kuow  the  man  of  old,  I've  scrutinized 
And  sliown  liim  long  ago  for  what  he  is: 
A  rude  unbridled  tongue,  a  hauglity  s^jirit; 
Proud,  arrogant,  and  insolently  pompous; 
Rough,  clownish,  boisterous,  and  overbearing. 

^Es. — Say'st  thou  me  so  ?    Thou  bastard  of  the 
earth. 
With  thy  i)atched  robes  and  rags  of  sentiment. 
Raked  from  the  streets,  and  stitched  and  tacked 

together! 
Thou  mumping,  whining,  beggarly  hypocrite! 
But  you  shall  pay  for  it. 

Bac. —  There  now,  ^Eschylus, 

You  grow  too  warm.     Restrain  your  ireful  mood. 

^Es. — Yes;  but  I'll  seize  that  sturdy  beggar  lirst, 
And  search  and  strip  liim  bare  of  his  pretensions. 

Bac. — Quick!  Quick!  A  sacrifice  to  the  winds — 
make  ready  ; 
The  storm  of  rage  is  gathering.     Bring  a  victim. 

^Es. — A  wretch  that  has  corrupted  everything: 
Our  music  with  his  melodies  from  Crete; 
Our  morals,  with  incestuous  tragedies. 

Bac. — Dear,  worthy  iEschylus,  contain  yourself ; 
And  as  for  you,  Euripides,  move  off 
This  instant,  if  you're  wise;  I  give  you  warning, 
Or  else  Avitli  one  of  his  big  thumping  phrases, 
You'll  get  your  brains  dashed  out,  and  all  your 

notions. — 
And  thee,  most  noble  ^schylus,  I  beseech 
With  mild  demeanor,  calm  and  affable. 
To  hear  and  answer.     For  it  ill  beseems 
Illustrious  bards  to  scold  like  market-women; 
But  you  roar  out,  and  bellow  like  a  furnace. 

Eur. — I'm  up  to  it — I  am  resolved,  and  here  I 
stand 
Ready  and  steady — take  what  course  you  will. 
Let  him  be  first  to  speak,  or  else  let  me. — 
I'll  match  my  plots  and  characters  against  him; 
My  sentiments  and  language,  and  whatnot; 
Aye,  and  my  music  too — my  Meleager, 
My  ^Eolus,  and  my  Telephus,  and  all. 


ARISTOPHANES.  415 

Bac. — Well,  yEschylus,  determine.      What    say 
you  ? 

^s. — I  wish  tlie  place  of  trial  had  been  else- 
where : 
I  stand  at  disadvantage  here, 

Bac. —  As  how  ? 

^E.s. — Because  my  poems  live  on  earth  above, 
And  his  died  with  him,  and  descended  here, 
And  are  at  hand  as  ready  witnesses. — 
But  you  decide  the  matter:  I  submit. 

Bac. — Come,  let  them  bring  me  fire  and  frank- 
incense. 
That  I  may  offer  vows  and  make  oblations 
For  an  ingenious  critical  conclusion 
To  this  same  elegant  and  clever  trial. 

Incense  is  now  offered  by  the  two  irate  com- 
petitors ;  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of  by-play 
by  the  Chorus  of  Frogs,  who  seem  to  be  look- 
ing out  for  fun.  Bacchus  gravely  directs 
the  rival  tragedians  to  proceed,  avoiding  all 
offensive  expressions. 

Eur. — At  the  first  outset,  I  forbear  to  state  my 
own  pretensions — 
Hereafter  I  shall  mention  them   when  his  have 

been  refuted. 
After  I  shall  have  fairly  shown  how  he  befooled 

and  cheated 
The  rustic  audience  which  he  found.    .  .  . 
He  planted  first  uijon  the  stage  a  figure  veiled  and 

muffled — 
An  Achilles  or  a  Xiobe,  that  never  showed  their 

faces. 
And  kept  a  tragic  attitude,   without  a  word   to 
utter. 
Bac. — No  more  they  did:  'tis  very  true 
Eitr. —  In  the  mean  while  the  Chorus 

Strung  on  ten  strophes  right-on-end :  but  they  re- 
mained in  silence. 
Bac. — I  liked  that  silence  well  enough;  as  well 
perhaps  or  better 
Than  these  new  talking  characters. 

Eur. —  That's  from  your  want  of  judgment, 
Believe  me. 


416  ARTSTOrTTANES. 

Bac. — "Why,  perhaps  it  is.     lint,  what  was  his  in- 
tent ion  '»' 
Eur. — Why,  mere  eoneeit  and  insoU^nce  to  keep 
the  people  waiting 
Till  Niohe    should    dei^n    to  speak,  to  drive   his 
drama  forward. 
^7'Jn. — Well   then,    thou   paltry  wretch,   explain 

what  were  your  own  devices. 
Eitr. — When   I   received  the   ^Inso  from  yon,  I 
found  her  puffed  and  pampered 
With  pompous  sentences  and  terms — a  cumbrous 

hni;e  virago. 
My  lirst  attentit)n  was  applied  to  make  her  look 

jienteelly; 
And  brinj;  her  to  a  better  shape  by  dint  of  lighter 

diet. 
T  fed  her  with  plain  household  phrases,  ami  cool 

familiar  salad, 
With  water-grnel  episode,  and  sentimental  jelly. 
With  moral  mincemeat,  till  at  len,<;ih  I  brought 

her  into  compass. 
I  kept  my  plots  distinct  and  clear,  and  t(^  prevent 

confusion, 
My  leadiufi'  characters  rehearsed  their  pcdipjroes 
for  prologues. 
^Es, — 'Twas  well   at  least  Ihat  you  forbore  to 

quote  your  own  extraction. 
Eur. — From   the  lirst  openinj^;  of   the  scene  all 
persons  were  in  action. 
The  master  spoke,  the  slave  replied;  tlio  women, 

yonnji"  and  old  ones. 
All  luid  their  etpial  share  of  talk. 

.Eli. —  Come  then,  stand  forth  and  tell  us 

What  forfeit  less  than  death  is  dvu>  for  siu-h   an 
inuov.ation? 
Eui: — 1  did  it  upon  priui  iple,  from  democratic. 

nu>tives. 
Jiitv. — Take  care,  niy  friend.  ui)on  that  ground 

your  footiuii'  is  but  ticklish. 
Ear. — I  tau.uht  these  youths  to  speechify. 
^Es. —  1  say  so  too. — Moreover 

I  say  that — for   the   public   cood — you   ojiyht   to 
have  been  handed  lirst. 
Eur. — The  rules  and  forms  (.if  rhetoric,  the  laws 
of  composition ; 


ARISTOPHANES.  417 

To  prate,  to  state,  and  in  debate  to  meet  a  ques- 
tion fairly; 

At  a  dead-lift  to  turn  and  shift;   to  make  a  nice 
distinction. 
^s. — I  grant  it  all.     I  make  it  all  my  ground  of 
accusation. 

The  dispute  goes  on  long  and  furiously, 
-^schylus  avers  that  when  the  citizens  passed 
from  his  tutelage  to  that  of  Euripides,  they 
were  brave  and  manly;  ready  to  do  all 
service  to  the  State,  "with  arms  and  equip-- 
ments,  bucklers,  shields,  and  so  forth." 

Bac. — There  he  goes,  hammering  on;   with  his 
helmets, 
He'll  be  the  death  of  me  some  day. 
Eur. — But  how  did  you  manage  to  make  'em  so 
manly? 
What  was  the  metliod,  tlie  means  that  you  took? 
Bac — Si)eak,    yEschylus,    speak,    and     behave 
yourself  better, 
And  don't  in  your  rage  stand  so  silent  and  stern. 
yEs. — A  drama,  brimful  with  lieroical  spirit. 
Eia: — What  did  you  call  it? 
^Es. —  The  Chiefs  against  Thebes, 

That  inspired  each  spectator  with  martial  ambi- 
tion, 
Courage  and  ardor,  and  prowess  and  pride. 
Bac. — But  you  did  very  wrong  to  encourage  the 
Thebans; 
Indeed,  you  deserve  to  be  punished — you  do; 
For  the  Thebans  are  grown  to  be  capital  soldiers. 
You've  done  us  a  mischief  by  that  very  thing. 
^Es. — The  fault  was  your  own  if  you  took  other 
courses. 
The  lesson  J  taught  was  directed  to  you.  .  .  . 

^schylus  goes  on  to  speak  of  others  of  his 
dramas,  and  to  set  forth  the  lofty  lessons 
which  they  inculcated;  contrasting  them 
with  those  of  Euripides,  the  tendency  of 
which  was  very  hurtful : — that  of  the  Phae- 
dra, for  exaniiile. 
27 


418  AlJISTOrilANES. 

Eur. — But  at  least  you'll  allow  that  /  never  iu- 

vented  it. 
Phsedra's  affair  was  a  matter  of  fact. 
yEs. — A  fact,  with  a  vengeance!     But  hoiTiblo 

facts 
Should  be  bui'ied  in  silence,  not  bruited  abroad, 
Nor  brought  forth  on  the  stage,  nor  emblazoned 

in  poetry. 
Children  and  boys  have  a  teacher  assigned  them: 
The  bard  is  a  master  for  manhood  and  youth, 
Bound  to  instruct  them  in  virtue  and  truth. 

Poor  Bacchus  is  greatly  puzzled  to  arrive 
at  a  wise  decision.  He  thinks  that  qviantity, 
as  well  as  quality,  should  be  taken  into  con- 
sideration. He  calls  for  a  pair  of  scales,  and 
in  them  weighs  the  manuscripts  of  the  rival 
poets.  Those  of  the  one  are  just  about  as 
heavy  as  those  of  the  other.  At  length  he 
propounds  a  political  question  to  each  com- 
petitor. Both  answer  ambigviously ;  but  the 
reply  of  ^schylus  seems  to  be  the  wisest, 
and  so  the  pre-eminence  is  awarded  to  him. 
Pluto  permits  JSschylus  to  return  to  the 
Upper  World;  and  gives  him  some  good 
advice : 

Pluto. — Go  forth  with  good  wishes   and  hearty 
good-will. 
And  salute  the  good  people  on  Pallas's  Hill. 
Let  them  hear  and  admire  Father  yEschylus  still, 
In  his  office  of  old  which  he  again  must  fill: — 
You  must  guide  and  direct  them 
With  a  lesson  in  verse ; 
For  you'll  find  them  much  worse; 
Greater  fools   than   before,  and  their  folly  much 

more. 
And  more  numerous  far  than  the  blockheads  of 
yore 

^Es. — I  shall  do  as  you  say;  but  while  Fm  away, 
Let  the  seat  that  I  held,  by  Sophocles  be  filled, 
As  deservedly  reckoned  7ny  ]>upil.  and  second 
In  learning  and  merit,  and  tragical  spirit. — 
And  take  special  care; — 


I 


AKISTOPHANES.  419 

Keep  that  re])rol)ate  there 

Far  aloof  from  the  chair. 

Let  him  never  sit  in  it  an  hour  or  a  minute, 

By  chance  or  design  to  profane  what  was  mine. 

Pluto,  who,  as  conceived  by  Aristophanes, 
was  a  very  good  sort  of  a  fellow,  gives  Bac- 
chus and  ^schylus  a  jolly  send-off  as  they  set 
out  for  the  regions  of  Upper  Air : 

P?H<.— Bring  forward  the  torches!    The  Chorus 
shall  wait, 
And  attend  on  the  Poet  in  triumphant  state, 
With  a  tliundering  chant  of  majestical  tone. 
To  wish  him  farewell  with  a  tune  of  his  own. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  the  first  place  among 
the  comedies  of  Aristophanes  should  be  ac- 
corded to  The  Knights;  or,  as  we  would 
designate  it,  "  The  Cavaliers."  If  not,  as  a 
whole,  the  best  of  the  dramas,  it  contains 
beyond  question  the  keenest  of  his  political 
satire,  and  some  of  his  noblest  lyrics,  which 
are  sung  by  the  Knights,  who  constitute  the 
Chorus.    We  take  the  translation  of  Frere. 

THE  CHOKUS  PRAISE  THEIR  FOREFATHERS. 

Let  us  praise  our  famous  fathers :  let  their  glory 

be  recorded, 
On  Minerva's    mighty  mantle    consecrated    and 

embroidered; 
That  with  many  a  naval  action,  and  with  infantry 

by  land, 
Still  contending,  never  ending,  strove  for  em])ire 

and  command. 
When  they  met  the  foe,  disdaining  to  compute  a 

poor  account 
Of  the   number  of  their  armies,   of  their  muster 

and  amount: 
But   whene'er    at  wrestling-matches  they    were 

worsted  in  the  fray, 
Wiped  tlieir  slioulders  from  the  dust,  denied  the 

fall,  and  fought  away; 


420  ARISTOPHANES. 

Tlien  tlie  generals  never  claimed  precedence,  or  a 
separate  seat, 

Like  the  present  mighty  captains,  or  the  public 
wine  or  meat. — 

As  for  us,  the  sole  pretension  suited  to  our  birth 
and  years, 

Is  with  resolute  intention,  as  determined  volun- 
teers, 

To  defend  our  fields  and  altars,  as  our  fathers  did 
before. 

Claiming,  as  a  recompense,  this  easy  boon  and 
nothing  more : 

When  our  trials  with  peace  are  ended,  not  to  view 
us  with  malignity. 

When  we're  curried,  sleek  and  pampered,  pranc- 
ing in  our  pride  and  dignity. 

THE   CHORUS   TRAISE   THEIR   STEEDS. 

Let  us  sing  the  mighty  deeds  of  our  illustrious 
noble  steeds. 

They  deserve  a  celebration  for  their  service  here- 
tofore : 

Charges  and  attacks — exploits  enacted  in  the  days 
of  yore, 

(These  however,  strike  me  less,  as  having  been 
performed  ashore); 

But  the  wonder  was  to  see  them  Avhen  they  fairly 
went  abroad. 

With  canteens,  and  bread,  and  onions,  victualled 
and  completely  stored ; 

Then  they  fixed  and  dipped  their  oars,  begin- 
ning all  to  shout  and  neigh. 

Just  the  same  as  human  creatures — "  Pull  away, 
boys !  pull  away ! 

Bear  a  hand  there,  Pioan  and  Sorrel!  Have  a  care 
there,  Black  and  Bay! "' — 

Then  they  leapt  ashore  at  Corinth;  and  the  lustier 
younger  sort 

Strolled  about  to  pick  up  litter  for  their  solace 
and  disport; 

And  devoured  the  crabs  of  Corinth,  as  a  substi- 
tute for  clover; 

So  that  a  poet,  named  Cruhb,  exclaimed  in  an- 
guish—   All's  over! 


ATHSTOriTAXES.  421 

AVliat  avails  ns,  mip;hty  "NTcptinie,  if  we  cannot  liope 

to  kt":'i> 
From  pui'suit  and   persecution  on  the  land   fir  in 

the  deepi* " 

From  the  comedies  of  Ai-istophanes  we  can 
really  learn  more  of  the  real  life  of  the  Athe- 
nians of  his  day  than  from  what  is  recorded 
by  the  gravest  historians ;  just  as  the  dramas 
of  Shakespeare  and  the  novels  of  Scott  are  act- 
xially  truer  history  than  are  the  chronicles  of 
Holinshed  and  the  tomes  of  Hume.  "  If ,  "  says 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Collins,  "one  great  object  of 
the  study  of  the  classics  is  to  gain  an  accu- 
rate acquaintance  with  one  of  the  most  brill- 
iant and  interesting  epochs  in  the  history  of 
the  world,  no  pages  will  supply  a  more  im- 
portant contribution  to  this  knowledge  than 
those  of  the  great  Athenian  humorist.  He 
lays  the  flesh  a-nd  blood,  the  features  and  the 
coloring,  upon  the  skeleton  which  the  histo- 
rian gives  us.  His  portraits  of  political  and 
historical  celebrities  must  of  course  be  ac- 
cepted with  caution,  as  the  works  of  a  profes- 
sional caricaturist ;  but,  like  all  good  caricat- 
ures, they  preserve  some  striking  character- 
istics of  the  men,  which  find  no  place  in  their 
historical  portraits;  and  they  let  us  know 
what  was  said  of  them  by  their  ii'reverent 
contemporaries.  It  is  in  these  comedies  that 
we  have  the  Athenians  at  home;  and  al- 
though modern  writers  of  Athenian  history 
have  laid  them  largely  under  contribution  in 
the  way  of  reference  and  illustration,  nothing 
will  fill  in  the  outline  of  the  Athens  of  Cleon 
and  Alcibiades  so  vividly  as  the  carefui  study 
of  one  of  these  remarkable  dramas.  One  is 
inclined  to  place  more  faith  than  is  usually 
due  to  anecdotes  of  the  kind  in  that  which  is 
told  of  Plato  that  when  the  elder  Dionysius, 
tyrant  of  Syracuse,  wrote  to  him  to  request 
information  as  to  the  state  of  things  at  Athens, 


422  AKISTOPHANES. 

the  philosopher  sent  him  a  copy  of  Aris- 
t<")plianes"s  Cioiids  as  the  best  and  most  trust- 
worthy picture  of  that  marvellous  republic." 
Two  of  the  most  pleasant  of  the  comedies 
of  Aristophanes  are  the  Tliesmophoriazusce. 
("Women's  Festival")  and  the  Ecclesiazusce 
("Female  Parliament'')  in  which  the  Wom- 
an's Right  question  is  ventilated.  In  the  for- 
mer of  these  is  a  lively  chorus  sung  by  wom- 
en, which  is  thus  rather  freely  rendered  by 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Collins : 

CIIOErS   OF   WOMEN. 

They're  always  abusing  the  Women  as  a  terrible 

plague  to  men: 
They  say  we're  tlie  root  of  all  evil,  and  repeat  it 

again  and  again; 
Of  war,  and  quarrels,  and  bloodshed;  all  mischief, 

be  it  what  it  may: — 
And,  pray  then,  why  do  you  marry  us,  if  we're  all 

the  plagues  you  say? 
And  why  do  you  take  sucli  care  of  us,  and  keep 

us  so  safe  at  home ; 
And  are  never  easy  a  moment,  if  ever  we  chance  to 

roam  ? 
When  you  ought  to  be  thanking  heaven  that  your 

Plague  is  out  of  the  way, 
You  all  keep  fussing  and   fretting — "Where  is 

my  Plague  to-day?" — 
If  a  Plague  peeps  out  of  the  window,  up  go  the 

eyes  of  the  men; 
If  she  hides,  then  they  all  keep  staring  until  she 

looks  out  again. 

In  the  Ecclesiazusce  one  of  the  speakers 
thus  demonstrates  that  women  are  the  true 
conservative  element  in  society,  and  should 
therefore  be  at  the  head  of  public  affairs  not 
only  in  peace  but  in  war : 

AVOMEX'S   CAPABILITIES. 

They  roast  and  1>oil  after  the  good  old  fashion; 
Tliey  keep  the  holidays  that  were  kept  of  old; 
They  make  their  cheese-cakes  by  the  old  receipts; 


AEISTOTLE.  423 

They  keep  a  private  bottle  like  their  mothers', 
They    plague    their    husbands — as    they    always 

did.  .  .  . 
Being  mothers,  they'll  be  chary  of  the  blood 
Of  their  own  sons,  our  soldiers.     Being  mothers, 
They'll  take  care  their  children  do  not  starve 
When    they're    on    service.     And  for    ways  and 

means, 
Trust  us,  there's  nothing  cleverer  than  a  woman. — 
And  as  for  diplomacy,  they'll  be  hard  indeed 
To  cheat: — they  know  too  many  tricks  themselves. 

AEISTOTLE,  a  Greek  philosopher,  the 
founder  of  the  school  of  Peripatetics.  He 
was  born  at  Stagira,  a  Greek  colony  in  Mace- 
donia (whence  he  is  denominated  ' '  the  Stagi- 
rite'"),  in  384  B.C.,  and  died  at  Chalcis,  on  the 
island  of  Eubooa,  in  322  B.C.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen  he  was  sent  to  Athens  to  complete 
his  education,  and  resided  there  during  the 
ensuing  twenty  years.  When  he  was  about 
forty  years  old,  Philip  of  Macedon  invited 
Aristotle  to  become  the  tutor  of  his  son.  Alex- 
ander, afterwards  known  as  "the  Great," 
then  a  boy  of  thirteen.  He  acquired  a  com- 
manding influence  over  Phihp  and  his  son; 
and  after  the  conquest  of  Persia,  Alexander 
presented  his  former  tutor  with  a  sum  of  800 
talents  in  gold — equivalent  to  about  $1,000,000 
of  our  money,  and  also  sent  to  him  specimens 
of  all  curious  animals  and  plants  which  were 
discovered  in  his  numerous  expeditions. 
When  he  Avas  about  fifty  years  old  Aristotle 
took  up  his  residence  at  Athens,  bringing  with 
him  his  vast  scientific  collections,  and  estab- 
lished his  new  School  of  Philosophy  in  the 
Lyceum,  a  gymnasium  near  the  city  sur- 
rounded by  shady  walks  (peripatoi),  in  which 
he  was  wont  to  discourse  to  his  pupils,  while 
walking  about,  whence  his  school  of  philoso- 
phy is  styled  the  "Peripatetic  School."  His 
friendly  relations  with  Alexander    were  at 


42i  ARISTOTLE. 

length  broken  off,  on  account,  it  is  said,  of 
the  admonitions  which  lie  addressed  to  the 
great  conqueror  upon  the  dissohite  way  of 
hfe  into  which  he  had  fallen.  The  Athenians, 
however,  charged  him  with  still  being  a  par- 
tisan of  the  Macedonian  dynasty,  accused 
him  of  impiety,  and  forced  him  to  flee  to 
Chalcis,  where  he  died. 

Aristotle  was  beyond  question  by  far  the 
best  educated  man  of  all  antiquity.  He  seems 
to  have  grasped  all  the  knowledge  of  his 
times,  and  to  have  made  nimierous  important 
additions  to  almost  every  department  of  nat- 
ural science — to  say  nothing  of  his  undoubted 
merits  as  a  metaphysical  thinker.  He  was 
the  first  careful  dissector  and  describer  of 
animals ;  the  first  to  divide  the  animal  king- 
dom into  classes.  He  described  many  spe- 
cies of  animals  hitherto  wholly  unknown  to 
his  countrymen ;  and  cauie  near  to  discover- 
ing the  fact  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 
His  entire  philosophical  method  seems  to  be 
almost  identical  with  that  long  after  enunci- 
ated by  Bacon.  It  rests  upon  the  principle 
that  all  our  thinking  must  be  founded  on  the 
observation  of  facts. 

Many  of  the  writings  of  Aristotle  are  un- 
doubtedly lost;  but  what  remains  of  them 
exceed  in  bulk  those  of  any  other  classic 
Greek  Author.  Bekker's  complete  edition, 
in  the  original,  contains  eight  large  octavo 
volumes,  nearly  all  of  which  is  text.  Taylor  s 
quite  inadequate  English  translation  fills 
eleven  folios.  They  cover  an  almost  mfinite 
range  of  topics  in  the  domains  of  physics, 
metaphysics,  ethics,  and  speculation.  Per- 
haps the  most  striking  of  his  works  is  the  Met- 
apJiysics,  Avhich  has  been  admirably  trans- 
lated by  Rev.  John  H.M'Mahon,  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Dublin,  who  has  greatly  added  to  its  use- 
fulness by  prefixing  a  copious  analysis  of  the 


AllISTOTLE.  425 

whole  work.  "  The  Metaphysics,^'  ho  says, 
"open  with  a  short  preface,  in  which  Aris- 
totle seeks  to  introduce  his  readers  to  the  phi- 
losophy that  he  is  now  about  to  develop  for 
them,  and  which  he  implies  is  quite  distinct 
in  its  aim  from  that  found  in  the  other  por- 
tions of  his  works ;  though  at  the  same  time 
inseparably  connected  with  them,  as  pieces 
of  that  vast  edifice  of  knowledge,  pi-actical 
as  well  as  speculative,  which  it  was  his  am- 
bition to  build  up  and  leave  behind  him  for 
the  service  of  mankind." — Our  citations  from 
this  work  will  be  in  the  translation  of  M'Ma- 
hon: 

SENSE,   MEMORY,    AND   FORESIGHT. 

All  men  by  nature  are  actuated  with  the  desire 
of  knowledge,  and  an  indication  of  this  is  the  love 
of  the  senses;  for  even,  irrespective  of  their  util- 
ity, are  they  loved  for  their  own  sakes;  and  pre- 
eminently above  the  rest,  the  sense  of  Sight. 
For  not  only  for  practical  purposes,  but  also  when 
not  intent  on  doing  anything,  we  choose  the 
power  of  vision  in  preference,  so  to  say,  to  all  the 
rest  of  the  senses.  And  a  cause  of  this  is  the  fol- 
lowing: That  this  one  of  the  senses  particularly 
enables  us  to  ai^prehend  whatever  knowledge  it  is 
the  inlet  of,  and  that  it  makes  many  distinctive 
qualities  manifest. 

By  nature,  then,  indeed,  are  animals  formed,  en- 
dowed with  sense;  but  in  some  of  them  Memory  is 
not  innate  with  sense,  and  in  others  it  is.  And  for 
this  reason  are  those  possessed  of  more  foresight, 
as  well  as  a  greater  aptitude  for  discipline,  than 
those  which  are  wanting  in  this  faculty  of  mem- 
ory. Those  fumiished  with  foresight,  indeed,  are 
yet  without  the  capability  of  receiving  instruction, 
whatever  amongst  them  are  unable  to  understand 
tlie  sounds  they  hear,  as,  for  instance,  bees,  and 
other  similar  tribes  of  animals.  'But  those  are 
capable  of  receiving  instruction  as  many  as,  in 
addition  to  memory,  are  provided  with  this  sense 
also. 

The    rest,   indeed,    subsist,   then,    througli   im- 


42r,  AEISTOTLE. 

pressions  and  the  operations  of  memory,  but 
share  Experience  in  a  slight  degree ;  whereas  the 
human  race  exists  by  means  of  Art  also  and  the 
power  of  Reasoning. — Preface  to  Metaphysics. 

EXPEEIENCE,   ART,    AXD  WISDOM. 

Xow  Experience  accrues  to  men  from  memory; 
for  repeated  acts  of  memory  about  the  same  thing 
done,  constitute  the  force  of  a  single  experience: 
and  experience  seems  to  be  a  thing  almost  similar 
to  Science  and  Art. 

But  Science  and  Art  result  unto  men  by  means 
of  Experience;  for  Experience,  indeed,  as  Polus 
saith,  and  correctly  so,  has  produced  Art,  but  In- 
experience, Chance.  But  an  art  comes  into  be- 
ing when,  out  of  many  conceptions  of  experience, 
one  universal  opinion  is  evolved  with  respect  to 
similar  cases.  For,  indeed,  to  entertain  the  opin- 
ion that  this  particular  remedy  has  been  of  service 
to  Callias,  while  laboring  under  this  particular 
disease,  as  well  as  to  Socrates,  and  so  individually 
to  many — this  is  an  inference  of  Experience;  but 
that  it  has  been  conducive  to  the  health  of  all — 
such  as  have  been  defined  according  to  one  .spe- 
cies— while  laboring  under  this  disease,  as  for 
instance,  to  the  phlegmatic  or  tlie  choleric,  or 
those  sick  of  a  burning  fever — this  belongs  to  the 
province  of  Art. 

As  regards,  indeed,  practical  purposes,  there- 
fore, Experience  seems  in  nowise  to  dilYer  from 
Art;  nay,  even  we  see  the  experienced  compassing 
their  object  more  effectually  than  those  who  pos- 
sess a  theory  Avithont  the  experience.  But  a 
cause  of  this  is  the  following:  That  Experience, 
indeed,  is  a  knowledge  of  singulars,  whereas  Art, 
of  universals.  But  all  things  in  the  doing,  and  all 
generations,  ai'e  concerned  about  the  singular:  for 
he  whose  profession  it  is  to  practice  medicine, 
does  not  restore  Man  to  health  save  by  accident; 
bxit  Callias,  or  Socrates,  or  any  of  the  rest  so  des- 
ignated, to  whom  it  happens  to  be  a  man.  If 
therefore,  any  one  without  tlie  Experience  is 
furnished  with  the  Principle,  and  is  acquainted 
with  the  Universal,  but  is  ignorant  of  the  Singular 
that  is   involved  therein,   he  will  frequently  fall 


ARISTOTLE.  427 

into  error  in  the  case  of  his  medical  treatment, 
for  tliat  wliich  is  capable  of  cure  is  ratlicr  the 
Sin£,ailar. 

But  nevertheless,  we  are  of  opinion  that,  at 
least,  knowledge  and  understanding?  appertain  to 
Art  rather  tlian  to  Experience;  and  we  reckon 
artists  more  wise  than  the  experienced,  inasmuch 
as  Wisdom  is  tlie  concomitant  of  all  philosophers 
rather  in  pi-oportion  to  their  knowledge. 

But  this  is  so  because  some,  indeed,  are  aware 
of  the  cause,  and  some  are  not.  For  the  experi- 
enced, indeed,  know  that  a  thing  is  so,  but  they 
do  not  know  wlierefore  it  is  so;  but  others— I 
mean  the  scientific— are  acquainted  with  the 
wherefore  and  the  cause.  Therefore,  also,  we 
reckon  the  cliief  artificers  in  each  case  to  be  en- 
titled to  more  dignity,  and  to  the  reputation  of 
superior  knowledge,  and  to  be  more  wise  than  the 
handicraftsman,  because  the  former  are  ac- 
quainted with  the  causes  of  the  things  that  are 
being  constructed;  whereas  the  latter  produce 
things,  as  certain  inanimate  things  do,  indeed- 
yet  these  perform  their  functions  unconsciously — 
as  the  fire  when  it  burns.  Things  indeed,  there- 
fore, that  are  inanimate,  by  a  certain  constitution 
of  nature,  perform  each  of  these  their  functions; 
but  the  handicraftsman  through  habit,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  not  according  as  men  are  practical  that 
they  are  more  wise,  but  according  as  they  pos- 
sess the  reason  of  a  thing,  and  understand  causes. 

And  upon  the  whole,  the  proof  of  a  person's 
having  knowledge  is  even  the  ability  to  teach; 
and  for  this  reason  we  consider  Art  ratlier  than 
Experience,  to  be  a  science,  for  artists  can,  where- 
as liandicraftsmen  cannot,  convey  instruction. 

And  further,  we  regard  none  of  the  senses  to  be 
Wisdom,  although,  at  least  these  are  the  most  de- 
cisive sources  of  knowledge  about  singulars,  but 
they  make  no  aflirmation  of  the  loherefore  in  regard 
of  anything:  as,  for  example,  lohy  fire  is  hot,  but 
only  the  fact  that  it  is  hot. 

Therefore,  indeed,  it  is  natural  for  the  person 
who  first  discovers  any  art  whatsoever,  beyond 
the  ordinary  power  of  the  senses,  to  be  tlie  object 
of    human   admiration,   not   only   on   account   of 


428  ARISTOTLE. 

something  of  the  things  that  liave  been  discovered 
being  usefvil,  but  as  one  that  is  wise  and  superior 
to  tlie  rest  of  men.  But  when  more  arts  are  being 
discovered — both  some,  indeed,  in  relation  to 
tilings  that  are  necessary,  and  others  for  pastime 
— we  invariably  regard  such  more  wise  than  those, 
on  account  of  their  sciences  not  being  for  bare 
utility.  Whence  all  things  of  such  a  sort  having 
been  already  procured ,  those  sciences  have  been 
invented  which  were  pursued  neither  for  pur- 
poses of  pleasure  nor  necessity,  and  first  in  those 
places  where  the  inhabitants  enjoyed  leisure. 
Wherefore,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Egypt  the 
mathematical  arts  were  first  established,  f  o]-  there 
leisure  was  spared  unto  the  sacerdotal  caste.  It 
has  then,  indeed  been  declared  in  the  Ethics  what 
is  the  difference  between  an  Art  and  a  Science, 
and  the  rest  of  the  things  of  the  same  description. 
But,  at  present,  the  reason  of  our  producing  this 
treatise  is  the  fact  that  all  consider  what  is  termed 
Wisdom  to  be  conversant  about  First  Causes  and 
Principles;  so  that — as  has  l)een  said  on  a  former 
occasion — the  ex])erienced  seem  to  be  more  wise 
than  those  possessing  any  sense  whatsoever;  and 
the  artificer  than  the  experienced;  and  the  mas- 
ter-artist than  che  handicraftsman;  and  the  spec- 
ulative rather  than  those  that  are  productive. 
That,  indeed,  Wisdom,  therefore,  is  a  science  con- 
versant about  certain  causes  and  First  Principles, 
is  Qbvious.^-Pre/ace  to  Metaphysics. 

TITEJ   i;XIST]SJiCE   AXD   ATTnilitTTES   OF    THE   DEITY. 

The  Final  Cause  of  anything  resides  in  those 
things  of  which  tlie  one  is  in  existence  and  the 
other  is  not.  So  that  which  first  imparts  motion 
does  so  as  a  thing  that  is  loved ;  and  that  which 
has  motion  impressed  upon  it  imparts  motion  to 
other  tliinga.  If,  indeed,  therefore,  anything  is 
being  moved,  it  is  admissible  also  that  it  should 
subsist  in  a  different  manner.  Wherefore,  if  the 
primary  motion  constitutes  energy  also,  so  far 
forth  as  the  thing  is  moved,  in  this  way  it  is  like- 
wise possible  tli.at  it  should  subsist  after  a  differ- 
ent mode  in  place  though  not  m  substance.  Since 
however,  there  is  something  that  imparts  motion, 


ARISTOTLE.  429 

itself  beinff  immovable,  and  subsisting  in  energy, 
this  does  not  by  any  means  admit  of  subsisting  in 
a  different  manner  ;  for  the  primary  motion  be- 
longs to  the  changes,  and  of  this  that  which  is  cir- 
cular; but  this  First  Mover  imparts  motion  to  that. 

Of  necessity,  in  this  case,  must  this  original 
First  Mover  constitute  an  entity;  and  so  far  forth 
as  it  sul'sists  necessarily,  so  far  forth  does  it 
subsist  after  an  excellent  manner;  and  in  this  way 
constitutes  a  First  Principle.  For  what  is  neces- 
sary subsists  in  thus  many  ways:  In  the  first,  by 
what  is  accomplished  by  violence,  because  it  is 
contrary  to  free-will;  and,  secondly,  as  that  with- 
out which  a  thing  does  not  subsist  in  an  excellent 
manner;  and,  thirdly,  as  that  which  could  not  be 
otherwise  from  what  it  is,  but  involves  an  abso- 
lute subsistence.  From  a  First  Principle,  then,  of 
this  kind — I  mean  one  that  is  involved  in  the  as- 
sumption of  a  First  Mover — hath  depended  the 
Heaven  and  Nature. 

Now,  the  course  of  life  of  this  First  Mover — in 
like  manner  with  our  own  for  a  limited  period  of 
time — is  such,  also,  as  is  the  most  excellent;  for, 
in  the  present  instance,  doth  that  First  Mover  con- 
tinue in  the  enjoyment  of  the  Principles  of  Life 
forever;  for  with  us,  certainly,  such  a  thing  as 
this  would  be  impossible;  but  not  so  with  the 
First  Mover,  since  even  dotli  the  energy  or  activ- 
ity of  this  First  Mover  give  rise  unto  pleasure  or 
satisfaction  on  the  part  of  such;  and  on  this  ac- 
count vigilance,  exercise  of  the  senses,  and  per- 
ception in  general,  are  what  is  most  productive  of 
pleasure  or  satisfaction;  and  with  hopes  and  rec- 
ollections is  the  case  the  same  for  these  reasons. 
Now,  essential  perception  is  the  perception  of 
that  which  is  essentially  the  most  excellent,  and 
that  which  is  most  essential  perception  is  the  per- 
ception of  that  which  is  most  essential.  The 
mind,  however,  is  cognizant  of  itself  by  participa- 
tion in  that  which  falls  witliin  the  province  of  the 
mind  as  its  object;  for  it  becomes  an  object  of 
perception  by  contrast  and  by  an  act  of  intellect- 
ual api)rehension.  So  that  the  mind,  and  that 
which  is  an  object  of  perception  for  the  mind,  are 
the  same;  for  that  which  is  receptive  of  impi-es- 


m)  ARISTOTLE. 

sioiis  from  what  is  an  object  of  perception,  and 
is  substance,  constitutes  Mind-,  and  when  m  pos- 
session of  these  impressions  it  energizes,  or  sub- 
sists in  a  condition  of  activity.  Wherefore,  that 
seems  to  belong  to  the  First  Mover  rather  than  to 
tlie  mind  of  man;  and  it  is  a  Divine  prerogative 
whicli  tlie  mind  appears  to  possess :  and  contcm- 
idation  contemplates  what  is  most  agreeable  and 
excellent.  If,  therefore,  God  in  this  way  pos- 
sesses such  an  excellent  mode  of  subsistence  for- 
ever— as  we  do  for  a  limited  period  of  duration — 
the  Divine  Nature  is  admirable;  and  if  he  pos- 
sesses it  in  a  more  eminent  degree,  still  more  ad- 
mirable will  be  the  Divine  Nature. 

In  this  way,  however,  is  the  Deity  disposed  as 
to  existence;  and  the  Principle  of  Life  is,  at  any 
rate,  inherent  in  the  Deity;  for  the  energy  or 
active  exercise  of  Mind  constitutes  life;  and  God 
— as  above  delineated — constitutes  this  Energy, 
and  essential  Energy  belongs  to  God  as  his  best 
and  everlasting  Life.  Now,  our  statement  is  this: 
That  the  Deity  is  a  Being  that  is  everlasting  and 
most  excellent  in  nature ;  so  that  with  Deity  Life 
and  Duration  are  uninterrupted  and  eternal:  for 
this  constitutes  the  very  essence  of  God. — Meta- 
physics, Book  XL  Chap.  VII. 

But  the  wa-itings  of  Aristotle  do  not  deal 
wholly,  or  even,  mainly  with  these  high-trans- 
cendental themes.  He  treats  in  many  of  his 
works  of  things  which  relate  to  private,  so- 
cial, and  political  ethics.  In  the  citations 
which  follow,  which  are  here  grouped  to- 
gether from  various  works,  the  translations 
are  mainly  adopted  as  given  by  Crawford 
Tait  Ramage,  LL.D. 

THE   IDEAL   STATE. 

It  is  evident  that  it  is  not  a  mere  community  of 
place;  nor  is  it  established  that  men  may  be  safe 
from  injury  and  maintain  an  interchange  of  good 
offices.  All  these  things,  indeed,  must  take  jjlace 
where  there  is  a  state,  and  yet  they  may  all  exist 
and  there  be  no  state.     A  state,  then,  may  be  de- 


ARISTOTLE.  431 

fined  to  be  a  society  of  people  joiuiiij?  together  hy 
their  families  and  children  to  live  happily,  enjoy- 
ing a  life  of  thorough  independence. 

When  a  democracy  is  controlled  by  fixed  laws, 
a  demagogue  has  no  power,  but  the  best  citizens 
fill  the  offices  of  state.  When  the  laws  are  not 
supreme,  there  demagogues  are  found;  for  the 
l)eople  act  like  a  king,  being  one  body,  for  the 
many  are  supreme,  not  as  individuals  but  as  a 
whole.  The  supreme  power  must  necessarily  be 
in  the  hand  of  one  person,  or  of  a  few,  or  of  the 
many.  When  one,  the  few,  or  the  many  direct 
their  whole  efforts  for  the  common  good,  such 
states  must  be  well  governed ;  but  when  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  one,  the  few,  or  the  many  is  alone 
regarded,  a  change  for  the  worse  must  be  ex- 
pected. 

A  pretension  to  offices  of  state  ought  to  be 
founded  on  those  qualifications  that  are  a  part  of 
itself.  And  for  this  reason,  men  of  birth,  inde- 
pendence and  fortune  are  right  in  contending 
with  each  other  for  office;  for  those  who  hold 
offices  of  state  ought  to  be  persons  of  indepen- 
dence and  property.  The  multitude,  when  they 
are  collected  together,  have  sufficient  understand- 
ing for  the  purpose  of  electing  magistrates;  and, 
mingling  with  those  of  higher  rank  are  serviceable 
to  the  state,  though  separately  each  individual  is 
unfit  to  form  a  judgment  for  himself;  as  some 
kinds  of  food,  which  would  be  poisonous  by  it- 
self, by  being  mixed  with  the  wholesome,  makes 
the  whole  good.  The  free-born  and  men  of  high 
birth  will  dispute  the  point  with  each  other,  as 
being  nearly  on  an  equality,  for  citizens  that  are 
well-born  have  a  right  to  more  respect  than  the 
ignoble.  Honorable  descent  is  in  all  nations 
greatly  esteemed;  besides,  it  is  to  be  expected 
that  the  children  of  men  of  worth  will  be  like 
their  fathers;  for  nobility  is  the  virtue  of  a  fam 

iiy. 

Education  and  good  morals  will  be  found  to  be 
almost  the  whole  that  goes  to  make  a  good  man: 
and  the  same  things  will  make  a  good  statesman 
and  good  king.  The  truest  definition  of  a  com- 
plete citizen  that  can  be  given  is  probably  this: 


432  ARISTOTLE. 

that  he  shares  in  the  judicial  and  executive  part  of 
the  government.  But  it  is  a  matter  of  high  com- 
mendation to  know  how  to  command  as  well  as  to 
obey;  to  do  both  these  things  well  is  the  peculiar 
quality  of  a  good  citizen.  A  state,  consisting  of 
a  multitude  of  human  beings,  as  we  have  before 
said,  ought  to  be  brought  to  unity  and  commu- 
nity by  education;  and  he  who  is  about  to  inti-o- 
duce  education,  and  expects  thereby  to  make  the 
state  excellent,  will  act  absurdly  if  he  thinks  to 
fashion  it  by  any  other  means  than  by  manners, 
philosophy,  and  laws.  The  corruption  of  the  best 
and  most  divine  form  of  government  must  be  the 
worst.  There  is  no  free  state  where  the  laws  do 
not  rule  supreme;  for  the  law  ought  to  be  above 
all.  A  government  in  a  constant  state  of  turmoil 
is  weak.  The  only  stable  state  is  that  where 
every  one  possesses  an  equality  in  the  eye  of  the 
law,  according  to  his  merit,  and  enjoys  his  own 
unmolested. 

CLASSES   IN  THE   STATE. 

In  every  state  the  people  are  divided  into  three 
kinds.  The  very  rich,  the  very  poor;  and  those 
who  are  between  them.  Since  then,  it  is  univers- 
ally acknowledged  tliat  the  mean  is  the  best, 
it  is  evidcjit  that  even  in  respect  to  fortune  a 
middle  state  is  to  be  preferred;  for  that  state  is 
most  likely  to  submit  to  reason.  For  those  who 
are  very  handsome,  or  very  strong,  or  very  noble; 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  those  who  are  very  poor, 
or  very  weak,  or  very  mean,  are  with  difficulty  in- 
duced to  obey  reason;  and  this  because  the  one 
class  is  supercilious,  and  the  other  rascally  and 
mean:  and  the  crimes  of  each  arise  respectively 
from  insolence  and  servility. 

THE  MIDDLE  CLASS   SHOULD   BE  THE  KULING  ONE. 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  the  most  perfect  polit- 
ical community  is  that  which  is  administered  by 
the  Middle  Classes,  and  those  states  are  best 
carried  on  in  which  these  are  the  majority,  and 
outweigh  the  other  classes;  and  if  that  cannot  be, 
at  least  where  they  overbalance  each  s<;parately; 
for  being  thrown  into  the  balance,  it  will  prevent 


AlUyTOTLE.  433 

eitlicr  extreme  from  predominating.  Wlierefore 
it  is  the  greatest  happiness  to  possess  a  moderate 
and  competent  fortune;  since  where  some  possess 
too  much,  and  others  nothing  at  all,  the  govern- 
ment must  be  either  an  extreme  Democracy  or 
else  a  pure  Oligarchy;  or,  from  the  excess  of  both, 
a  Tyranny;  for  this  springs  from  a  headstrong 
Democracy  or  an  Oligarchy;  but  far  more  seldom 
when  the  members  of  the  community  are  nearly 
on  an  equality  with  each  other. 

It  is  clear  that  the  state  where  the  Middle  Class 
predominate  is  the  best;  for  it  alone  is  free  from 
seditious  movements.  Where  such  a  state  is 
large,  there  are  fewer  seditions  and  insurrections 
to  disturb  the  peace,  and  for  this  reason:  exten- 
sive states  arc  more  peaceful  internally,  as  the 
middle  ranks  are  numerous.  In  small  states  it  is 
easy  to  pass  to  the  two  extremes,  so  as  to  have 
scarcely  any  middle  ranks  remaining;  but  all  are 
either  very  poor  or  very  rich.  Should  the  num- 
ber of  husbandmen  be  predominant,  it  will  be  of 
the  very  best  kind;  if  of  mechanics,  and  those  who 
work  for  pay,  of  the  worst. 

Scattered  through  the  writings  of  Aristotle 
are  brief  and  pregnant  hints  upon  homely 
matters,  than  which  it  will  not  be  easy  to 
find  anything  wiser  or  more  apposite  from 
any  social  philosopher  of  later  days.  Thus, 
in  regard  to  Education  by  the  State  he  says : 

It  would  be  best  that  the  state  should  pay  at- 
tention to  education,  and  on  right  2>i"iiicip]es,  and 
that  it  should  have  power  to  enforce  it;  but  if  it 
be  neglected  as  a  public  measure,  then  it  would 
seem  to  be  the  duty  of  every  individual  to  con- 
tribute to  the  virtue  of  his  children  and  friends; 
or  to  make  this  his  deliberate  purpose. 

And  this  upon  the  strict  maintenance  of 
Law : 

Particular  care  oiight  to  be  taken  that  nothing 
be  done  contrary  to  law;  and  this  should  be  chiefly 
hxdicd  to  in  matters  of  small  moment.    For  small 
28 


434  ARISTOTLE. 

violations  of  law  advance  by  stealthy  steps,  in  the 
same  way  as,  in  a  domestic  establishment,  trilling 
expenses,  if  often  repeated,  consume  a  man's 
whole  estate. 

And  this  upon  the  QuaUfications  of  a  Pubhc 
Officer: 

There  are  three  qualifications  which  ought  to  be 
possessed  by  a  man  who  aspires  to  fill  the  high 
offices  of  state :  Firstly,  he  must  be  w'ell  disposed, 
and  prepared  to  support  the  established  Constitu- 
tion of  his  country;  secondly,  he  ought  to  have  a 
si)ec{al  aptitude  for  the  office  which  he  fills;  and, 
thirdly,  he  should  have  the  kind  of  virtue  and 
love  of  justice  which  suits  the  iJarticular  state  in 
which  he  lives. 

And  this  comprehensive  definition  of  Hap- 
piness : 

Let  happiness  be  defined  to  be  good  fortune  in 
union  with  virtue — or  independency  of  life — or 
the  life  that  is  most  agreeable,  attended  with  se- 
curity, or  plenty  of  property  and  slaves;  with  the 
power  to  preserve  and  ornament  it;  for  all  men 
agree  that  one  or  more  of  these  things  amount 
nearly  to  happiness. 

And  this  upon  a  topic  of  every  day  concern- 
ment in  which  the  ancients  were  far  in  ad- 
vance of  later  times : 

THE    NECESSITY  OF   GOOD  WATER. 

Since  every  attention  should  be  given  to  the 
health  of  the  inhabitants,  it  is  of  great  importance 
that  the  city  should  have  a  good  situation;  and 
next,  that  the  inhabitants  should  have  good  water 
to  drink:  and  this  must  not  be  regarded  as  a  mat- 
ter of  secondary  moment.  For  what  is  used 
chiefly  in  great  quantities  for  the  support  of  the 
body  must,  above  all,  contribute  to  its  health. 
And  this  is  the  influence  which  the  air  and  the 
water  exercise  over  the  body.  Wherefore,  in  all 
wise  governments  the  water  ought  to  be  appor- 
tioned to  dift'erent  pur^DOses;  if  all  is  not  equally 


JOHN  ARMSTEONG.  435 

good,  and  if  there  is  not  abundance  of  both  kinds, 
that  for  drinking  should  be  separated  from  that 
wliich  is  used  for  other  i^urposes. 

AEMSTEONG,  John,  a  British  author,  bom 
in  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  in  1700 ;  died  in 
London  in  1779.  He  studied  medicine  at  Edin- 
burgh; and  subsequently  went  to  London, 
Avhere  he  became  intimate  with  the  Uterary 
celebrities  of  the  time.  Thomson,  in  The 
Castle  of  Indolence,  describes  him  as  one 
who — 

Quite  detested  talk  ; 
Oft,  stung  by  spleen,  at  once  away  he  broke 
To  groves  of  pine  and  broad  o'ershadowing  oak; 
There,  inly  thrilled,  life  wandered  all  alone. 
And  on  himself  his  pensive  fury  woke ; 
Nor  ever  uttered  word,  save  when  first  shone 
The    glittering  star  of  eve — "  Thank  Heaven,  the 
day  is  done!" 

He  wrote  several  works  in  prose  and  verse, 
which  had  considerable  repute  in  their  day. 
But  the  only  one  by  which  he  is  remembered, 
the  poem  The  Art  of  Preserving  Health,  was 
praised  for  "its  classical  correctness  and 
closeness  of  style."  One  of  the  best  passages 
in  this  poem  is  the  following : 

OVEB-INDULGENCE  IIT  WINE. 

But  most,  too  passive  when  the  blood  runs  low, 

Too  weakly  indolent  to  strive  with  pain. 

And  bravely,  by  resisting,  conquer  fate. 

Try  Circe's  arts;    and  in  the  tempting  bowl 

Of  poisoned  nectar  sweet  oblivion  swill. 

Struck  by  the  i:)owerful  charm  the  gloom  dissolves 

In  empty  air;  Elysium  opens  round, 

A  pleasing  frenzy  buoys  the  lightened  soul, 

And  sanguine  hopes  dispel  your  fleeting  care; 

And  what  was  diflicult,  and  what  was  dire, 

Yields  to  your  i^rowess  and  superior  stars. 

The  happiest  you  of  all  that  e'er  were  mad, 

Or  are,  or  shall  be,  could  this  folly  last. 


436  JOHN  ARMSTEONG. 

But  soon  your  heaven  is  gone;  a  heavier  gloom 
Shvits    o'er    your    head;    and   as   the   thundering 

stream, 
Swollen  o'er  its  banks  with  sudden  mountain  rain, 
Sinks  from  its  tumult  to  a  silent  brook, 
So  when  the  frantic  raptii.res  in  your  breast 
Subside,  you  languish  into  mortal  man. 
You  sleep,  and  waking  find  yourself  undone. 
For,  prodigal  of  life,  in  one  rash  night 
You  lavished  moi'e  than  might  support  three  days. 
A  heavy  morning  comes ;  your  cares  return 
With  tenfold  rage.-;-An  anxious  stomach  well 
May  be  endured;    so  may  the  throbbing  head; 
But  such  a  dim  delirium,  such  a  dream. 
Involves  you;  such  a  dastardly  despair 
Unmans  yoi;r  soul,  as  maddening  Pentheus  felt, 
When,  baited  round  Cithajrun's  cruel  sides. 
He  saw  tv.o  suns  and  double  Thebes  ascend. 

The  poem  contains  a  really  magnificent  de- 
scription of  the  famous  "  SAveating  Sickness  " 
which  raged  in  England  in  the  Summer  of 
1485.  An  accurate  medical  diagnosis  was 
never  before  so  poetically  phi'ased.  The 
subjoined  extract,  however,  perhaps  exhibits 
Ai'mstrong  at  his  best: 

THE   MUTATIONS   OF  TIME. 

What  does  not  fade?    The  tower  that  long  had 

stood 
The  crash  of  thunder  and  the  warring  winds, 
Shook  by  the  slow  but  sure  destroyer  Time, 
Now  hangs  in  doubtful  ruins  o'er  its  base, 
And  flinty  pyramids  and  walls  of  brass 
Descend.     The  Babylonian  spires  are  sunk; 
Achaia,  Rome,  and  Egypt  moulder  down. 
Time  shakes  the  stable  tyranny  of  thrones, 
And  tottering  empires  rush  by  their  own  weight. 
This  huge  rotundity  we  tread  grows  old. 
And  all  those  worlds  that  roll  around  the  sun; 
The  Sun  him.seif  shall  die,  and  ancient  Night 
Again  involve  the  desolate  abyss. 
Till  the  great  Father,  through  the  lifeless  gloom, 
Extend  his  arm  to  light  another  world, 
And  bid  new  planets  roll  by  other  laws. 


EKNST  MOIUTZ  AllNDT.  -137 

ARNDT,  Ernst  Moritz,  a  German  poet, 
born  on  the  island  of  Riigen,  Dec.  2Q,  17G9, 
died  at  Bonn,  Jan.  29,  1860.  He  studied  at 
Grief  swald  and  Jena,  travelled  in  Europe,  and 
was  appointed  Professor  at  Griefswald,  where 
he  wrote  a  History  of  Serfdom  in  Fonierania 
and  Riigen.  In  1807  appeared  the  first  volume 
of  his  Spirit  of  the  Time,  iu  which  he  made 
a  severe  attack  upon  Napoleon,  which  occa- 
sioned his  expulsion  from  the  country.  He 
afterwards,  under  an  assumed  name,  taught 
languages  in  Sweden  and  Russia,  and  pub- 
lished numerous  pamphlets  arousing  the  pub- 
lic mind  against  Napoleon,  and  a  book  in 
which  he  claimed  the  Rhine  as  a  German 
river.  He  also  wrote  many  patriotic  songs, 
one  of  which  is  Was  ist  des  Deidschen  Vater- 
land  f  In  1818  he  became  Professor  of  Modern 
Languages  in  the  Univei'sity  of  Bonn;  but  his 
liberal  ideas  gave  offence  to  the  Prussian  Gov- 
ernment and  he  was  tried  upon  charge  of  trea- 
son ;  and  although  he  could  not  be  convicted, 
he  was  forbidden  to  continue  to  teach  history 
in  the  Kingdom.  He  was  restored  to  his 
chair  in  the  University  in  1810.  He  subse- 
quently took  an  active  part  in  the  political 
movements  of  1848-49  and  even  then  advo- 
cated a  hereditary  German  Empire.  A  monu- 
ment in  his  honor  was  erected  at  Bonn  in  1865, 
and  the  house  in  which  he  had  lived  was 
purchased  and  presented  to  the  city. 

THE   GEEMAN    FATHERLAND. 

Which  is  the  German's  Fatlievland? 

Is't  Prussia's  or  Swabia's  land? 

Is't  where  the  Rhine's  rich  vintage  streams? 

Or  where  the  Northern  sea-gull  screams? — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no! 
His  Fatherland's  not  hounded  so! 

Which  is  the  German's  Fatherland? 
Bavaria's  or  fcjtyria's  land? 


4:38  ERNST  MOIUTZ  ARNDT. 

Is't  -where  the  Marciau  ox  unbends? 
Or  where  the  Marksman  iron  rends?— 

Ah,  no,  no,  no! 
His  Fatlierhxnd's  not  bounded  so! 

Which  is  the  German's  FatherLand? 
Pomerania's  or  Westphalia's  laud? 
Is  it  where  sweep  the  Dunian  waves?— 
Or  where  the  thundering  Danube  raves?— 

Ah,  no,  no,  no! 
His  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 

Which  is  the  German's  Fatherland? 

O,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land ! 

Is't  Tyrol,  or  the  land  of  Tell? 

Such  land  and  people  please  me  well:— 

Ah,  no,  no,  no! 
His  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 

Which  is  the  German's  Fatherland? 
Come,  tell  me  now  the  famous  land. 
Doubtless  it  is  the  Austrian  State, 
In  honors  and  in  triumphs  great. — 

Ah,  no,  no,  no! 
His  Fatherland's  ^ot  bpunded  so! 

Which  is  the  German's  Fatherland? 

So  tell  me  now  the  famous  land! 

Is't  what  the  Princes  won  by  sleight 

From  the  Emperor  and  the  Empire's  right?— 

Ah,  no,  no,  no! 
His  Fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 

Which  is  the  German's  Fatherland? 
So  tell  me  now  at  last  the  land!— 
As  far's  the  German  accent  rings, 
And  hymns  to  God  in  Heaven  sings,—' 

That  is  the  Land! 
There,  brother,  is  thy  Fatherland. 

There  is  the  German's  Fatherland, 
Where  oaths  attest  the  grasped  hand; 
Where  truth  beams  from  the  sparkling  eyes. 
And  in  the  heart  love  warmly  lies ; — 

That  is  the  land! 
There,  brother,  is  thy  Fatherland ! 


EUWIN  ARNOLD.  439 

That  is  the  German's  Fatherhand, 
Where  wrath  pursues  the  foreign  band ; 
Where  every  Frank  is  held  a  foe. 
And  Germans  all  as  brothers  glow ; — 

That  is  the  land ! 
All  Germany's  thy  FatherJand! 
— Transl.  of  Maceay. 

ARNOLD,  Edwin,  an  English  journalist 
and  poet,  born  June  10,  1831.  He  studied  at 
King's  School,  Eochester,  and  at  King's  Col- 
lege, London,  whence  he  was  elected  to  a  schol- 
arship at  University  College,  Oxford,  where  in 
1852  he  gained  the  Newdigate  prize  for  English 
poetry  for  his  poem  on  Belshazzafs  Feast,  and 
in  the  following  yeai'  was  chosen  to  deliver 
the  address  to  the  Earl  of  Derby  on  his  instal- 
lation as  Chancellor  of  the  University.  Hav- 
ing graduated  with  high  honor  in  1854,  he 
was  for  a  short  time  Second  Master  in  King 
Edward  the  Sixth's  School  at  Birmingham, 
and  was  then  appointed  Principal  of  the  Gov- 
ernment Sanskrit  College  at  Poonah  in  West- 
ern India.  He  held  this  position  until  1860, 
when  the  death  of  his  child  and  the  sickness 
of  his  wife  induced  liim  to  return  to  England, 
where  he  became  one  of  the  Editors  of  the 
London  Daily  Telegraph,  the  most  widely- 
circulated  newspaper  in  England.  Besides 
contributing  largely,  in  prose  and  verse  to 
literary  periodicals,  he  has  written  a  treatise 
on  Education  in  India;  The  History  of  Lord 
Dalhousie'' s  Administration  in  India;  Gri- 
selda,  a  Drama;  a  volume  of  Poems  Narra- 
tive and  Lyrical.  He  has  translated  The  En- 
terpe  of  Herodotus,  from  the  Greek ;  and  from 
the  Sanskrit:  the  Hitopodesh,  or  "Book  of 
Good  Counsels,"  and  two  Books  of  the  Mahd- 
bhdrata,  which  has  been  styled  ' '  The  Iliad  of 
India. "  The  works  by  which  he  is  best  known 
are  the  poems,  Indian  Song  of  Songs  and  The 
Light  of  Asia,  of  which  he  says:  "  The  time 


440  EDWIN  AlIXOLD, 

may  come,  I  hope,  when  these  books  will  pre- 
serve the  memory  of  one  who  loved  India  and 
the  Indian  peoples."  The  "Light  of  Asia"  is 
not  Gautama,  or  Buddha  himself,  but  that 
doctrine  of  which  he  was  the  founder  and 
promulgator,  to  the  exposition  of  which  the 
poem  is  devoted,  and  of  the  general  character 
of  which  Mr.  Arnold  thus  speaks  in  the  Pre- 
face of  bis  work : 

BUDDHA  AND   BUDDHISM. 

The  Buddha  of  this  poem — if,  as  need  not  be 
doiil)ted,  he  really  existed — was  born  on  the  bor- 
ders of  Nepaul,  about  020  B.C. ,  and  died  about 
543  B.C.  at  Kusinagara  in  Oudh.  In  point  of  age, 
therefore,  most  other  creeds  are  youthful  when 
compared  with  this  venerable  religion,  which  has 
in  it  the  eternity  of  a  universal  hope,  the  immor- 
tality of  a  boundless  love,  an  indestructible  ele- 
ment of  faith  in  final  good,  and  the  proudest  as- 
sertion ever  made  of  human  freedom.  The  ex- 
travagances which  disfigure  the  record  and  prac- 
tice of  Buddhism  are  to  be  referred  to  tliat  inevita- 
ble degradation  which  priesthoods  always  inflict 
ui)on  the  great  ideas  committed  to  their  charge. 
Tlie  power  and  sublimity  of  Gautama's  original 
doctrines  should  be  estimated  Ity  their  influence, 
not  by  their  interi^reters:  nor  by  that  innocent  but 
lazy  and  ceremonious  Church  which  has  arisen  on 
tlie  foundations  of  the  Buddhistic  Brotherhood  or 
Sauf/ha. 

More  than  a  third  of  mankind  owe  their  moral 
and  religious  ideas  to  this  illustrious  Prince, 
whose  personality  though  imperfectly  revealed  in 
the  existing  sources  of  information,  cannot  but 
appear  the  highest,  gentlest,  holiest,  and  most 
beneficent — with  one  exception — in  the  history  of 
Thought.  Discordant  in  frequent  jjarticulars, 
and  sorely  overlaid  by  corruptions,  inventions, 
and  misconceptions,  the  Buddhistical  books  yet 
agree  in  the  one  point  of  recording  nothing — no 
single  act  or  w'ord — which  mars  the  perfect  purity 
and  tenderness  of  this  Indian  Teacher,  wlio  united 
the  truest  princely  (jualities  with  the  intellect  of 


EDWIN  AENOLD.  -Ml 

the  sage  and  the  passionate  devotion  of  the 
martyr.  Though  Gautama  discountenanced  rit- 
ual, and  declared  himself,  even  when  on  the  thresh- 
old of  Nirvana,  to  be  only  what  all  other  men 
miglit  become,  yet  the  love  and  gratitude  of  Asia, 
disobeying  his  mandate,  have  given  him  fervent 
worship.  Forests  of  flowers  are  daily  laid  upon 
his  stainless  shrines,  and  countless  millions  of 
lips  daily  repeat  the  formula,  "I  take  refuge  in 
Buddha." 

A  generation  ago  little  or  nothing  was  known 
in  Europe  of  this  great  faith  of  Asia,  which  had 
nevertheless  existed  during  twenty-four  centuries, 
and  at  this  day  surpasses,  in  the  number  of  its  fol- 
lowers and  the  area  of  its  prevalence,  any  other 
form  of  creed.  Four  hundred  and  seventy  mill- 
ions of  our  race  live  and  die  in  the  tenets  of  Gau- 
tama; and  the  spiritual  dominions  of  this  ancient 
teacher  extend,  at  the  present  time,  from  Nepaul 
and  Ceylon  over  tlie  whole  Eastern  Peninsula  to 
China,  Japan,  Thibet,  Central  Asia,  Siberia,  and 
even  Swedish  Lapland.  India  itself  might  fairly 
be  included  in  this  magnificent  empire  of  belief; 
for  though  the  profession  of  Buddhism  has  for 
the  most  i^art  passed  away  from  the  land  of  its 
birth,  the  mark  of  Gautama's  sublime  teaching  is 
stamped  ineffaceably  upon  modern  Brahmanism, 
and  the  most  characteristic  liabits  and  convictions 
of  the  Hindus  are  clearly  due  to  the  benign  influ- 
ence of  Buddha's  precepts. 

I  have  put  my  poem  into  a  Buddhist's  mouth, 
because  to  api)reciate  the  spirit  of  Asiatic 
thoughts,  they  should  be  regarded  from  the  Ori- 
ental point  of  view;  and  neither  the  miracles 
which  consecrate  this  record,  nor  the  philoso|)hy 
which  it  embodies,  could  have  been  otherwise  so 
naturally  reproduced.  The  doctrine  of  Transmi- 
gration, for  instance — startling  to  modern  minds 
— was  established  and  thoroughly  accepted  by  the 
Hindus  of  Buddha's  time;  that  period  when 
Jerusalem  was  being  taken  by  Nebuchadnezzar, 
when  Nineveh  was  falling  to  the  Medes,  and  Mar- 
seilles was  founded  by  the  Phoca;ans. 

The  exptisition  here  offered  of  so  antique  a  system 
is  of  necessity  incomi^lete,  and  passes  rapidly  by 


442  EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

raauy  matters  pliilosopliically  most  important,  as 
well  as  over  the  loiif,^  ministry  of  Gautama.  But 
my  purpose  has  been  obtained  if  any  just  concep- 
tion be  here  conveyed  of  the  lofty  character  of 
this  noble  Prince,  and  of  the  general  purport  of 
his  doctrines.  As  to  these  there  has  arisen  pro- 
digious controversy  among  the  erudite,  who  will 
be  aware  that  I  have  taken  the  imperfect  Bud- 
dhistic citations  much  as  they  stand  in  Spence  Har- 
dy's work,  and  have  also  modified  more  than  one 
passage  in  the  received  narratives.  The  views, 
however,  here  indicated  of  Nirrdna,  Dharma,  and 
the  other  chief  features  of  Buddhism,  are  at  least 
the  fruits  of  considerable  study,  and  also  of  a  firm 
conviction  that  a  third  of  mankind  would  never 
have  been  brought  to  believe  in  blank  abstrac- 
tions, or  in  Nothingness,  as  the  issue  and  crown 
of  Being. 

Buddha,  "He  by  whom  the  truth  is 
known,"  and  SiddArtha,  "Tlie  Establisher," 
should  be  regai'ded  rather  as  titles  of  Gau- 
tama, the  founder  of  Buddhism,  though  they 
are  used  indiscriminately  as  his  proper 
name.  The  poem  The  Light  of  Asia  is  com- 
prised in  eight  Books,  containing  in  all  some- 
thing like  4500  lines.     It  ojjens  thus : 

The  Scripture  of  the  Saviour  of  the  World, 
Lord  Buddha — Prince  Siddtirtha  styled  on  earth, 
In  earth  and  heavens  and  hells  incomparable, 
All-honored,  wisest,  best,  most  pitiful; 
The  teacher  of  Nirvana  and  the  Law; 
Thus  came  he  to  be  born  again  for  men. 

The  poem  then  goes  on  to  narrate  the  mi- 
raculous circumstances  attending  this  re-birth 
of  Buddha  into  the  world.  His  father  was 
Suddhodana,  "  He  whose  food  is  pure,"  a  just 
king,  who  ruled  over  the  Sakyas,  a  pious  peo- 
ple who  lived  ' '  under  the  southward  snows 
of  Himalay."  His  mother,  Maya,  bore  him 
without  the  usual  pains  of  childbirth,  and  he 
was  marked  by  the  thirty-two  greater  and 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  443 

the  eighty  lesser  tokens  which  denote  the  in- 
fant vx^ho  is  in  time  to  become  a  Buddh.  As 
the  boy  grew  up  he  excelled  all  his  mates  in 
wisdom  and  in  every  manly  exercise  and  ac- 
complishment. When  he  was  eighteen  his 
father  built  for  him  three  magnificent  pala- 
ces, and  began  to  cast  about  for  a  Avife  for  the 
Prince.  He  appointed  a  festival  where  all 
the  fairest  maidens  should  present  them- 
selves, and  at  which  the  Prince  should  ad- 
judge and  bestow  the  prizes  for  beauty,  hoping 
that  some  one  of  them  would  attract  the  love 
of  his  son.  When  all  the  prizes  had  been 
awarded,  came  the  young  Yasodhara,  fairer 
than  any  who  had  before  presented  them- 
selves. Siddartha  started  as  she  approached ; 
and  she  upon  him — 

Gazed  full — holdino;  her  palms  across  her  breasts — 
On  the  boy's  gaze,  her  stately  neck  unbent. 
"  Is  there  a  gift  for  me  ?"  she  asked  and  smiled. 
"The  gifts  are  gone,"  the  Prince  replied;    "yet 

take 
This  for  amends,  dear  Sister,  of  whose  grace 
Our  happy  city  boasts."     Therewith  he  kiosed 
The  emerald  necklace  from  his  throat,  and  clasped 
Its  green  beads  round  her  dark  and  silk-soft  waist; 
And  their  eyes  mixed,  and  from  the  look  sprang 

love. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  first  time  that 
these  two  had  met.  They  had  been  united  in 
a  previous  state  of  existence.  Of  this  the 
Prince  had  a  dim  consciousness ;  and  long  aft- 
er, when  he  had  received  his  full  enlighten- 
ment, and  could  clearly  recall  all  his  innu- 
merable existences,  he  told  how  it  was  that 
his  heart  took  fire  at  the  sight  of  this  Sakya 
girl: 

"  We  were  not  strangers,  as  to  us 
And  all  it  seemed.     In  ages  long  gune  by 
A  hunter's  son,  playing  with  forest  girls, 


iU  EDAViN   AllNOLD. 

By  Yamun's  springs,  where  Xandadevi  stands 
Sat  umpire  while  they  raced  beneath  the  firs.  .  .  . 

But  one  who  ran  the  last 
Came  first  for  him;  and  unto  her  the  boy 
Gave  a  tame  fawn,  and  his  heart's  love  besides. 
And  in  the  wood  they  lived  many  glad  years, 
And  in  the  wood  they  undivided  died — 
Lo !  as  the  hid  seed  shoots  after  rainless  years, 
So  good  and  evil,  pains  and  pleasure,  hates 
And  loves,  and  all  dead  deeds,  come  forth  again. 
Bearing  bright  leaves  or  dark,  sweet  fruit  or  sour. 
Thus  I  was  he,  and  she  Yasodhara; 
And  while  the  wheel  of  Birth  and  Death  tm-ns 

round. 
That  which  hath  been  must  be  between  us  two." 

Nor  was  even  that  their  fii'st  union. 
At  their  formal  betrothal  Yasodhara  wore 
upon  her  forehead  a  veil  of  Dlack  and  gold, 
which  she  coyly  withdrew  for  a  moment, 
then  drew  it  close  again.  After  his  enlight- 
enment Siddartha  explained  why  it  Avas  that 
Yasodhara  wore  this  black  and  gold  adorn- 
ment : 

"Unto  nie 
This  was  unknown,  albeit  it  seemed  half-known  : 
For  while  the  wheel  of  Birth  and  Death  turns 

round, 
Past  things  and  thoughts,  and  buried  lives  come 

back. — 
I  now  remember,  myriad  rains  ago, 
What  time  I  roamed  Himula's  hanging  woods, 
A  tiger,  with  my  striped  and  hungry  kind ; 
I  who  am  Buddh,  couched  in  the  kvisa-grass, 
Gazing  with  green  blinked  eyes  upon  the  herds 
Which  pastured  near  and  nearer  to  their  death 
Round  my  day-lair.  .  .  . 
Amid  the  beasts  that  were  my  fellows  then, 
Met  in  deep  jungle  or  by  ready  jheel 
A  tigress,  comeliest  of  the  forest,  set 
The  males  at  war.     Her  hide  was  lit  with  gold. 
Black-bordered  like  the  veil  Yas(3dhara 
Wore  for  me.     Hot  the  strife  waxed  in  that  wood 
With  toe  th  and  claw:  while  underneath  a  neem 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  445 

Tlie   fail-   V)cast   watched  ns   bleed,  thus    liercely 

wooed. 
And  1  remember,  at  the  end  she  came, 
Snarlhigpast  this  and  that  torn  forest  lord 
Which  I  had  conquered  ;  and  witli  fawnino-  jaws, 
Licked  my  quick-heaving  flank,  and  witli  me  went 
Into  the  wild,  with  proud  steps  annnously. — 
The  wheel  of  Birth  and  Death   turns  low   and 

high." 

This  doctrine  of  ceaseless  Transmigration 
underlies  the  Buddhist  philosophy ;  and  it  will 
go  on  until,  through  perfect  conformity  to 
Dharma  or  the  Universal  Law,  the  Karma  or 
sum  and  total  of  Being  through  all  its  trans- 
migrations, is  absorbed  in  Nirvana,  that  state 
of  existence  which  may  perhaps  be  best  ex- 
pressed by  the  word  "Beatitude."  The  at- 
tainment of  Nirvana  is  the  aim  of  the  Bud- 
dhistic System,  which  relates  only  to  human 
beings ;  looking  upon  all  the  so-called  gods  as 
mere  Mayas  or  ' '  Illusions."  If  we  rightly  ap- 
prehend the  teachings  of  this  philosophy,  all 
human  Beings  will  sooner  or  later  reach 
Nirvana,  though  it  may  be  after  a  lapse  of 
seons  in  comparison  with  which  the  ages  of 
which  our  cosmogonies  speak  ai'e  but  mo- 
ments. 

Two  Books  of  TJie  Light  of  Asia  are  devoted 
to  this  introductory  portion  of  the  life  of 
Lord  Buddha,  who  passes  some  time  in  his 
stately  palace,  ' '  knowing  not  of  woe,  nor 
want,  nor  pain,  nor  plague,  nor  age,  nor 
death."  But  he  has  ever  and  anon  dim  mo- 
nitions of  the  high  mission  to  which  he  is 
called.  He  starts  oftentimes  from  slimiber 
by  the  side  of  Yasodhara,  exclaiming,  "My 
world !  Oh !  world !  I  hear !  I  know !  I  come ! " 
One  day  they  placed  a  wind-harp  on  the  sill, 
and  as  the  breezes  sweep  over  its  strings,  he 
hears  in  the  weird  music  the  chanted  words 
of  the  Devas : 


440  EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

"  We  are  the  voices  of  the  wandering  Wind, 
Wliich  moan  for  rest,  and  rest  can  never  find; 
Lo!  as  the  Wind  is,  so  is  mortal  Life, 
A  moan,  a  sigh,  a  sob,  a  storm,  a  strife. 

"Wherefore  and  whence  we  are,  ye  cannot  know. 
Nor  where  Life  springs,  nor  whither  Life  doth  go; 
We  are  as  ye  are,  ghosts  from  the  Inane, 
What  pleasure  have  we  of  our  changeful  pain  ? 

"  What  pleasure  hast  thou  of  thy  changeless  bliss  ? 
Nay,  if  Love  lasted,  there  were  joy  in  this  : 
But  Life's  way  is  the  Wind's  way  ;  all  these  things 
Are  but  brief  voices  breathed  on  shifting  strings. 

"  O  Maya's  Son!  because  we  roam  the  earth 
Moan  we  upon  these  strings .     We  make  no  mirth, 
So  many  woes  we  see  in  many  lands; 
So  many  streaming  eyes  and  wringing  hands. 

"  But  thou  that  art  to  save,  thine  hour  is  nigh! 
The  sad  world  waiteth  in  its  misery; 
The  blind  world  stumble th  on  its  round  of  pain: — 
Rise,  Maya's  child!  wake!  slumber  not  again! 

"  We  are  the  voices  of  the  wandering  Wind; 
Wander  thou  too,  O  Prince,  thy  rest  to  find; 
Leave  Love  for  love  of  lovers;  for  Woe's  sake 
Quit  state  for  sorrow,  and  Deliverance  make." 

Siddartha  asks  and  obtains  permission  of 
his  father  to  ride  through  the  city,  and  see 
the  people  and  how  they  Hve.  The  King  is- 
sues a  proclamation  that  nothing  unpleasant 
shall  meet  the  eyes  of  tlie  Prince ;  that  no  one 
blind  or  maimed,  sick  or  infirm,  shall  apjDear 
in  the  streets  ;  that  no  funeral  procession 
shall  pass  during  that  day.  The  city  holds 
liigh  festival,  and  the  Prince  is  glad  at  the  glad- 
ness which  meets  him  everywhere.  But  he 
bids  Clianna,  his  charioteer,  to  drive  outside 
the  gates,  that  he  may  ' '  see  more  of  the  gra- 
cious world  he  had  not  known."  It  is  not  long 
before  he  sees  tottering  out  from  a  hovel  an 
old  man  in  the  last  stage  of  decrepitude,  who 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  447 

faintly  begs  for  alms.     They  would  di'ive  him 
away,  but  Siddartha  cries : 

"Let  be!  let  be! 
Channal  wbat  thing  is  this  who  seems  a  man, 
Yet  surely  only  seems,  being  so  bowed, 
.So  miserable,  so  horrible,  so  sad  ? 
Are  men  boi-n  sometimes  thus  ?    What  meanetli  be 
Moaning  '  To-morrow  or  next  day  I  die  ?  ' 
Finds  he  no  food  so  that  bis  bones  jut  forth  ? 
What  woe  hath  happened  to  this  piteous  one  ?" — 
Then  answer  made  the  charioteer:  "Sweet  Prince, 
This  is  no  other  tlian  an  aged  man. 
Some  fourscore  years  ago  his  back  was  straight, 
His  eye  bright,  and  his  body  goodly.     Now         , 
The  thievish  years  have  sucked  his  sap  away, 
Pillaged  his  strength  and  filched  his  will  and  wit. 
What  life  he  keeps  is  one  poor  lingering  spark 
Which  flickers  for  the  finish.     Such  is  Age  ; 
Why  should  your  Highness  heed  ?" — Then  spake 

the  Prince : 
"  But  shall  this  come  to  others,  or  to  all  ? 
Or  is  it  rare  that  one  should  be  as  be  ?  " — 
"Most  Noble,"  answered  Channa,  "even  as  .he 
Will  all  these  grow,  if  they  shall  live  so  long." — 
"  But,"  quoth  the  Prince,  "if  I  shall  live  as  long 
Shall  I  be  thus '?  and  if  Yasodhara 
Live  fourscore  years,  is  tliis  old  age  for  her, 
Jiilini,  little  Hasbi,  Gautami, 

And  Gunga,  and  the  others  ?  " — "  Yea,  great  Sir,'. 
The  charioteer  replied.     Then  spake  the  prince: 
"  Turn  back,  and  drive  me  to  my  bouse  again  ; 
I  have  seen  that  I  did  not  think  to  see.' ' 

As  yet  Siddartha  had  seen  nothing  of  death, 
and  had  no  conception  ot  what  the  Avoni 
meant.  But  the  next  day  he  craves  permis- 
sion to  see  the  city  and  its  people  in  their 
every-day  aspects.  Their  course  takes  them 
at  last  to  the  river-bank  outside  the  walls. 
They  come  upon  a  wretch  stricken  with  a 
sudden  plague,  who  implores  the  by-standers 
to  lift  him  up,  and  aid  him  to  reach  his  home. 
The  Prince  leaps  from  his  chariot,  and  in 


448  EDWIN  AENOLD. 

Bpite  of  the  remonstrances  of  Channa,  takes 
the  head  of  the  plague-stricken  man  upon  his 
knee,  and  tries  to  comfort  him.  Siddartha 
asks  of  the  charioteer : 

"  And  are  there  others,  are  there  many  thus  ? 
Or  might  it  be  to  me  as  now  with  him  ?  " 
"Great  Lord,"   answered   the  charioteer,  " This 

comes 
In  many  forms  to  all  men.     Grief  and  wounds, 
Sickness  and  tetters,  palsies  and  leprosies, 
Hot  fevers,  watery  wastings,  issues,  blains 
Befall  all  flesh  and  enter  everywhere." — 
"Come  such  things  unobsei'ved  ?"  the  Prince  in- 
quired; 
And  ("hanna  said:  "Like  the  sly  snake  they  come 
That  stings  unseen;  like  the  striped  murderer 
Who  waits  to  spring  from  the  karunda-bush. 
Hiding  beside  the  jungle-path;  or  like 
The  lightning,  striking  these  and  sparing  those, 
As   chance  may  send." — "Then   all   men   live  in 
fear'?"  [sleep 

"So  live  they,  Prince!" — "And  none  can  say,  '  I 
Happy  and  whole  to-night,  and  so  shall  wake  ?  '  " — 
"  Xone  say  it." — "  And  the  end  of  many  aches, 
Whicli  come  unseen,  and  will  come  when  they  come, 
Is  this;  a  broken  body  and  sad  mind, 
And  so  Old  Age  ?  "— "  Yea,  if  men  last  as  long."— 
"  r>ut  if  they  cannot  bear  their  agonies, 
Or  if  they  will  not  bear,  and  seek  a  term ; 
Or  if  they  bear  and  be  as  this  man  is. 
Too  weak  except  for  groans,  and  so  still  live. 
And  growing  old,  grow  older,  then  what  end?"— 
"  They  die,  Prince."—"  Die  ?  "— "  Yea,  at  the  last 

comes  Death, 
In  whatsoever  way,  whatever  hour. 
Some  few  grow  old,  most  suffer  and  fall  sick; 
But  all  must  die.    Behold,  where  comes  the  dead ! " 

A  funeral  procession  comes  in  sight,  wail- 
ing and  lamenting.  The  corpse  is  placed  up- 
on the  pile,  which  is  lighted,  and  soon  noth- 
ing is  left  of  the  dead  man  except  a  heap  of 
ashes,  with  here  and  there  a  frag^ment  of 
white  hone. 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  449 

Then  spake  the  Prince:     "Is  this  the  end  which 

comes 
To  all  who  live?  " — "  This  is  the  end  that  comes 
To  all,"  quoth  Channa;  "  he  upon  the  pyre, 
Ate,  drank,  laughed,  loved,  and  lived,  and  liked 

life  well. 

Then  came — who  knows? 

And  life  was  over,  and  the  man  is  dead: 
No  appetites,  no  pleasures,  and  no  pains 
Hath  such.     The  kiss  upon  his  lips  is  naught. 
The  fire-scorch  naught;  he  smelleth  not  his  flesh 
A-roast,  nor  yet  the  sandal  and  the  spice 

They  burn 

Here  is  the  common  destiny  of  llesh; 
The  high  and  low,  the  good  and  bad,  must  die; 
And  then,  'tis  taught,  begin  anew,  and  live 
Somewhere,  somehow — who  knows? — anil  so  again 
The  pangs,  the  parting,  and  the  lighted  pile: — 
Such  is  man's  round.'' 

This  revelation  of  Death  throws  some  light 
upon  the  soul  of  Siddartha.  He  has  at  least 
"some  far-off  vision,  linking  this  and  that: 
lost,  past,  but  searchable,"  and  exclaims: 

"  Oh  !  suffering  world! 
Oil!   known  and  unknown  of  my  common  flesh, 
Caught  in  this  common  net  of  Death  and  Woe, 
And  Life  which  binds  to  both!    I  see,  I  feel 
The  vastness  of  the  agony  of  earth. 
The  vainness  of  its  joys,  the  mockery 
Of  all  its  best,  the  anguish  of  its  worst; 
Since  Pleasures  end  in  Pain,  and  Youth  in  Age, 
And  Love  in  Loss,  and  Life  in  hateful  Death ; 
And   Death   in   unknown   Lives,   which   will   but 

yoke 
Men  to  their  wheel  again,  to  whirl  the  round 
Of  false  delights  and  woes  that  are  not  false.  .  .  . 

The  veil  is  rent 
Which  blinded  me!  I  am  as  all  these  men 
Who  cry  upon  their  gods  and  are  not  iieard 
Or  are  not  heected.     Yet  there  must  be  help! 
Perchance  the  gods  have  need  of  help  themselves, 
Being  so  feeble  that  when  sad  lips  cry 
They  cannot  save !     /  would  not  let  one  cry 
2'J 


450  EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

Whom  I  could  save !    How  can  it  be  that  Erahm 

Would  make  a  world  and  keep  it  miserable? 

Since,  if  all-powcrfid,  he  leaves  it  so, 

He  is  not  Good;  and  it'  not  powerful, 

He  is  not  God! — Channa,  lead  home  again! 

It  is  enough!  mine  eyes  have  seen  enough!  " 

The  fourth  Book  now  commences.  The  King 
has  had  a  vision  jDortending  some  mighty 
events  involving  tlie  destiny  of  his  son,  and 
gives  strict  orders  that  for  a  certain  number 
ot  days  no  one  shall  enter  or  leave  the  palace 
of  the  Prince: — 

But  when  the  days  were  numbered,  then  befell 
The  parting  of  our  Lord — which  was  to  be — 
Whereby  came  wailing  in  the  Golden  Home, 
Woe  to  the  King  and  sorrow  o'er  the  Land: 
But  for  all  llesh  Deliverance,  and  that  Law 
Which,   whoso   hears — the  same  shall  make  him 
free. 

Siddartha  kisses  a  tender  farewell  to  his 
wife  and  their  babe,  and  summons  Channa  to 
accompany  him.  Tlie  massive  gates  of  tlie 
palace  fly  open  of  their  own  accord,  and  the 
two  ride  forth  into  the  star-lit  night.  When 
morning  begins  to  dawn,  the  Prince  dis- 
mounts; bids  Channa  to  cut  oft"  his  long 
bright  curls,  and  carry  them  with  his  sword 
and  princely  robes  back  to  the  King  his 
father : — 

"Give  the  King  all  and  say, 
Siddartha  pi-ays  forget  him  till  he  come 
Ten  times  a  Prince,  with  royal  Wisdom  won 
From  lonely  search ings  and  the  strife  for  Light: 
Where,  if  I  conquer,  lol  all  earth  is  mine: 
Mine  by  chief  Service — tell  hnn — mine  by  Love! 
Since  tliere  is  hope  for  Man  only  in  Man; 
And  none  hath  sought  for  this  as  1  will  seek, 
Who  cast  away  my  world  to  save  my  World." 

The  fifth  Book  narrates  Siddartha's  long 
wandei'ings  in  quest  of  Truth.     He  at  length 


I 


EDWIN  AKNOLD.  451 

takes  up  his  abode  in  a  cave  not  far  Irom  the 
capital  of  King  Bimbasara,  once  a  great  city, 
but  which  has  been  in  ruins  for  unknown 
centuries : — 

Lo!  thou  who  comest  thither,  bai-e  thy  feet 
And  bow  thy  head !  for  all  the  spacious  earth 
Hath  not  a  spot  more  dear  and  hallowed.     Here 
Lord  Buddha  sate  the  scorching  summers  through, 
The  drivino-  rains,  the  chilly  daAvns  and  eves: 
Wearino-  for  all  men's  sakcs  the  ytllow  robe; 
Eating  in  beggar's  guise  the  scanty  meal 
Chance-gathered  from  the  charitable.     At  night 
Couched   on  the   grass,   homeless,    alone;    while 

yelped 
The  sleepless  jackals  round  his  cave,  or  cough 
Of  famished  tiger  from  tlie  thicket  broke. 
By  day  and  night  here  dwelt  the  World-Honored, 
Subduing  that  fair  body  born  for  bliss 
Witli  fast  and  frequent  watch  and  search  intense 
Of  silent  meditation,  .... 

Our  Lord, 
After  the  manner  of  a  Rishi,  hailed 
The  rising  sun,  and  went — ablutions  made — 
Down  by  the  winding  path  unto  the  town, 
And  in  the  fashion  of  a  Eishi  passed 
From  street  to  street,  with  begging-bowl  in  hand. 
Gathering  the  little  pittance  of  his  need. 
Soon  was  it  filled.   .  .  .  Then  he 
Passed  on^vard  with  the  bowl,  and  yellow  robed. 
By  mild  speech  paying  all  those  gifts  of  hearts, 
Wending  his  way  back  to  the  solitudes 
To  sit  upon  his  hill  witii  holy  men, 
And  hear  and  ask  of  Wisdom  and  its  roads. 

Not  far  from  the  cave  dwelt  a  company  of 
devotees  who  inflicted  upon  themselves  the 
utmost  torments  of  which  imagination  can 
conceive  in  the  hope  that  their  sufferings 
Avould  win  or  extort  a  blessing  from  the  re- 
luctant gods: — 

Whom  sadly  eyeing,  "pake  our  Lord  to  f)ne 
Chief  of  the  woe-begaties :  "Much-suffering  Sir, 
These  many  moons  1  dwell  upon  the  hill — 


452  EDWIX  ARNOLD. 

Who  am  a  seeker  of  tlie  Truth — and  see 
My  brothers  here,  and  thee,  so  jiiteously 
Self-anguished.     Wherefore  add  ye  ills  to  life 
Which  is  so  evil  ?  " 

Answer  made  the  sage: 
"  'Tis  written,  if  a  man  shall  mortify 
His  flesh  till  Pain  be  grown  the  life  he  lives, 
And  Death  voluptuous  rest,  such  woes  shall  purge 
Sin's  dross  away,  and  the  Soul,  purifled, 
Soar  from  the  f m-nace  of  its  sorrow,  winged 
For    glorious    spheres    and    splendor    past    all 
thought." 

Siddartha  replied  that  the  bright  cloud  rose 
up  from  the  sea;  and  that  it  must  in  time 
flow  back  to  the  sea  through  manifold  muddy 
ways ;  and  asked — 

"  Knowest  thou,  my  brother,  if  it  be  not  thus 
After  their  many  pains,  with  saints  in  bliss  ? 
Since  that  which  rises  falls,  and  that  which  buys 
Is  spent;  and  if  ye  buy  Heaven  with  your  blood 
In    Hell's     hard    market,     when    the    bargain's 

through 
The  toil  begins  again." 

"It  may  begin," 
The  hermit  moaned;  "alas,  we  know  not  this, 
Nor  surely  anything.     Yet  after  night 
Day  comes,  and  after  turmoil  Peace;  and  we 
Hate  the  accursed  Flesh  which  clogs  the  Soul 
That  fain  would  rise.     So,  for  the  sake  of  Soul, 
We  stake  brief  agonies,  in  game  with  gods. 
To  gain  the  larger  joys." 

"  Yet  if  they  last 
A  myriad  years,"  he  said,  "  they  fade  at  length, 
Those  joys.     Or,  if  not,  is  there  then  some  Life 
Below,  above,  beyond,  so  unlike  life 
It  will  not  change?     Speak  !  do  your  gods  endure 
Forever,  brothers  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  the  Yogis  said, 
"Only  great  Brahm  endures:  the  gods  but  live." 
Then    spake   Lord    Buddha:    "Will   ye,  being 
wise, 
As  ye  seem  holy  and  strong-hearted  ones, 


EDWIN  AKNOLD.  458 

Throw  these  sore  dice,  whicli  are  your  cfroans  and 
moans,  [end  ? 

For  gains  which  may  be  dreams  and  must  have 
Will  ye,  for  love  of  Soul,  so  loathe  your  Flesh 
So  scourge  and  maim  it  that  it  shall  not  serve 
To  bear  the  Spirit  on,  searching  for  Home  ? 
Dismantle  and  dismember  this  fair  house, 
Where  we  have  como  to  dwell  by  painful  leasts; 
Whose  windows  give  us  light — the  little  light — 
Whereby  we  gaze  abroad  to  know  if  dawn 
Will  break,  and  whither  winds  the  better  road  ?  " 
Then  cried  they,  "  We  have  chosen  this  for  road, 
And  tread  it,  Kajaputra,  till  the  close — 
Though  all  its  stones  were  fire — in  trust  of  Death. 
Speak,  if  thou  knowest  a  way  more  excellent; 
If  not,  peace  go  with  thee!" 

Onward  he  passed, 
Exceeding  sorrowful,  seeing  how  men 
Fear  so  to  die  they  are  afraid  to  fear; 
Lust  so  to  live  they  dare  not  love  their  life. 
But  plague  it  with  iierce  penances,  belike 
To  please  the  gods,  who  grudge  pleasure  to  man; 
Belike  to  balk  Hell  by  self-kindled  hells; 
Belike  in  holy  madness,  hoi)ing  Soul 
May  break  the  better  through  their  wasted  flesh. 

Siddartha  thenceforth  passed  on  through 
many  lands,  in  quest  of  Enhghtenment. 
King  Bimbasara  urges  him  to  abide  with 
him  and  become  his  heir  and  successor  upon 
the  throne ;  but  he  declares  that  he  is  going 
onward  "  to  build  the  Kingdom  of  the  Law," 
and  will  not  be  stayed  until  the  Light  comes 
— which  he  hopes  will  come  to  him  amidst 
the  "forest  shades  of  Gaya,"  wiiither  his 
steps  are  now  bound.  At  length — six  years 
after  he  had  left  his  palace  home — he  comes 
to  a  grove  close  by  the  peaceful  village  of 
which  Senani  was  lord. 

There  in  the  sylvan  solitudes  once  more 
Lord  Buddha  lived,  musing  the  woes  of  men, 
The  ways  of  Fate,  the  doctrines  of  the  Books, 
The  secrets  of  the  Silence  whence  all  come, 


4.j4  EDWIX  ARNOLD. 

The  secrets  of  the  Gloom  whereto  all  ijo; 
The  life  which  lies  between,  like  that  arch  Hung 
From  cloud  to  cloud  across  the  sky,  which  hath 
Mists  for  its  masonry,  and  vapory  piers 
Melting  to  void  again,  which  was  so  fair 
With  sapphire  hues,  garnet,  and  chysoprase. 

Moon  after  moon  our  Lord  sate  in  the  wood, 
So  meditating  these  that  he  forgot 
Of ttimes  the  hour  of  food ;  rising  from  thoughts 
Prolonged  beyond  the  sunrise  and  the  noon 
To  see  his  bowl  unfilled,  and  eat  perforce 
Of  wild  fruit  fallen  from  the  boughs  o'erhead, 
.Shaken  to  earth  by  chattering  ape,  or  plucked 
By  purple  parokcct.     Therefore  his  grace 
Faded;  his  body,  worn  by  stress  of  Soul, 
Lost  day  by  day  the  marks,  thirty-and-two, 
Which  testify  the  Buddha. 

One  day  when  Buddha  was  almost  ex- 
hausted, and  longed  for  food  to  give  him 
strength — "For,"  said  he,  "without  it,  I 
shall  die,  whose  life  was  all  men's  hope  " — a 
woman  came  bearing  her  babe  of  three 
months,  and  carrying  upon  her  head  a  bowl. 
It  was  Sujata,  the  wife  of  the  lord  of  the  vil- 
lage. In  spite  of  his  wasted  form  there  was 
something  so  benign  in  the  aspect  of  Buddha, 
that  Sujata  thought  he  must  be  the  divinity 
of  the  grove,  visible  in  human  form.  She 
begged  him  to  accept  her  dish  of  snowy 
curds.  He  ate;  his  strength  was  renewed, 
and  he  asked  her  what  was  the  food  which 
she  had  brought  him:— 

"  Holy  one," 
Answered  Sujata,  ''  from  our  droves  I  took 
Milk  of  a  hundred  mothers,  newly  calved. 
And  with  that  milk  I  fed  fifty  white  cows. 
And  with  their  milk  twenty-and-five,  and  then 
With  theirs  twelve  more;    and    yet  again  with 

theirs 
The  six  noblest  nnd  Ijest  of  all  our  herds. 
That  yield  1  boiled  with  sandal  and  fine  spice 
In  silver  lotas,  adding  rice  well-grown 


EDWIX  AllXOLI).  -l.T, 

From  fliosen  seed,  set  in  new  broken  <;roiind, 
So  picked  that  every  strain  was  like  a  pearl. 
This  did  I  of  true  heart,  because  I  vowed 
Under  thy  tree,  if  I  should  bear  a  boy 
I  would  make  offering  ft)r  my  joy;  and  now 
I  have  my  son,  and  all  nxy  life  is  bliss." 

Buddha  laid  his  hand  in  blessing  upon  the 
head  of  the  babe,  and  said  to  the  mother : — 

"  Long  be  thy  bliss! 
And  lightly  fall  on  him  the  load  of  life! 
For  thou  hast  holpen  me  who  am  no  god, 
But  one,  thy  brother;  heretofore  a  Prince, 
And  now  a  wanderer,  seeking,  night  and  day, 
These  six  hard    years,  that  Light  which    some- 
where shines 
To  lighten  all  men's  darkness,  if  they  knew! 
And  I  shall  find  the  Light;  yea  now  it  dawned 
Glorious  and  helpful,  when  my  weak  flesh  failed, 
Which  this  pure  food,  fair  sister,  hatli  restored, 
iJrawn  manifold  through  lives  to  quicken  Life, 
As  Life  itself  passes  by  many  ))irths 
To  hapi>ier  heights  and  purging  olf  of  sins. 
Yet  dost  thou  truly  find  it  sweet  enough 
Only  to  live  ?    Can  Life  and  Love  suffice  ?  " 

Answered  Sujata:  "Worshipful!  my  heart 
Ls  little,  and  a  little  rain  will  fill 
The  lily's  cup  which  hardly  moists  the  field. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  feel  life's  sun 
Shine  in  my  lord's  grace  and  my  baby's  smile, 
Making  the  loving  summer  of  our  home. 
Pleasant    my  days    pass,   filled   with    household 

cares 

And  what  the  Books  say,  that  I  humbly  take. 

Being  not  wiser  than  those  great  of  old 

Who  spake  with  gods,  and  knew  the  hymns  and 

charms. 
And  all  the  ways  of  virtue  and  of  peace. 
Also  1  think  that  good  must  come  of  good, 
And  ill  of  evil — surely  unto  all, 

In  every  time  and  place 

Therefore  fear  I  uot. 
And  therefore.  Holy  Sir,  my  life  is  glad, 
Nowise  forgetting  yet  those  other  lives 


456  EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

Painful  and  poor,  wicked  and  miserable, 

Whereon  the  gods  grant  pity !    But  for  me, 

What  good  I  see  humbly  I  seek  to  do, 

And  live  obedient  to  the  Law  in  trust 

That  what  will  come,  and  must  come,  shall  come 

Avell." 
Then  spake  our  Lord:  "Thou  teachest  them 

who  teach; 
Wiser  than  wisdom  is  thy  simple  lore. 
Be  thou  content  to  know  not,  knowing  thus 
Thy  way  of  Right  and  Duty.     Grow,  thou  flower  I 
With  thy  sweet  kind  in  shade;  the  light 
Of  Truth's  high  noon  is  not  for  tender  leaves 
Which  must  spread  broad  in  other  suns,  and  lift 
In  later  lives  a  crowned  head  to  the  sky. 
As  the  dove  is,  which  flyeth  home  by  Love, 
In  thee  is  seen  why  there  is  hope  for  Man, 
And  where  we  hold  the  wheel  of  life  at  will. 
Peace  go  with  thee,  and  comfort  all  thy  days ! 
As  thou  accomplishest,  may  I  acliieve! 
He  whom  thou  tliouglitest  God  bids  thee   wish 

this." 

But  that  full  Enlightenment,  through  the 
attciiument  of  Avhich  Buddha  was  to  become 
the  great  Teacher,  was  not  to  be  attained 
without  an  inward  struggle  with  the  Powers 
of  Darkness,  Avho  were  bent  on  preventing 
him  from  accomyjlishing  his  mission.  He 
felt  that  the  suj)reme  hour  was  at  hand ;  and 
so^ 

He  bent  his  footsteps  where  a  great  tree  grew, 
The  Bodhi-tree — thenceforth  in  all  years 
Never  to  fade,  and  ever  to  be  kept 
In  homage  of  the  world — beneath  whose  leaves 
It    was    ordained    that    Truth    should    come    to 

Buddh ; 
Which  now  the  Master  knew.    Wherefore  he  went 
With  Tueasured  pace,  steadfast,  majestical. 
Unto  the  Tree  of  Wisdom.     Oh,  ye  worlds, 
llcjoice!  our  Lord  wended  unto  the  tree! 

The  narrative  of  the  trial  and  temptation 
of  Buddha  forms  the  conclusion  of  the  Sixth 


EDWIN  AKNOLD.  457 

Book  of  the  poem.  It  lasted  but  a  single 
night,  as  measured  by  the  stars ;  but  in  those 
few  hours  were  concentrated  ages  of  endur- 
ance and  experience ;  while  the  earth  and  all 
living  things  looked  on  awaiting  the  momen- 
tous issue.  As  tempters  came  the  "  ten  chief 
sins:  "  the  demons  of  Self,  of  Doubt,  of  Super- 
stition, of  Pleasure,  of  Hate,  of  Lust  of  Life, 
of  Lust  of  Fame,  of  Pride,  of  Self-Righteous- 
ness, of  Ignorance.  Ah  these  presented  their 
allurements  or  their  threatenings ;  but  Buddha 
put  them  aside  with  words  which  re- 
mind us  not  a  little  of  the  temptations  put 
aside  by  a  greater  One  than  Siddartha.  All 
these  demons  fled  discomfited,  and  at  the 
third  watch  of  the  night  Buddha  attained 
"  Perception,"  so  that  he  could  survey  all  his 
five  hundred  and  fifty  previous  lives.  At  the 
middle  watch  he  gained  "  Intuition,"  of  the 
Universe  and  all  the  mysteries  of  all  worlds 
and  aeons.  At  the  fourth  watch  he  gained 
"Knowledge,"  of  all  the  Illusions  of  Time 
and  Sense.  When  dawn  came  all  the  earth 
broke  out  in  exultation  at  the  perfect  victory 
which  Buddha  had  won,  and  he  chanted  his 
Song  of  Triumph: 

"Many  a  house  of  life 
Hath  held  me— seeking-  Him  who  wrought 
These  prisons  of  tlie  senses,  sorrow-fraught; 

Sore  was  my  ceaseless  strife! 

But  now, 
Tliou  Builder  of  this  Tabernacle— Thou ! 
I  know  Thee !  Never  shalt  thou  build  again 

These  walls  of  pain, 
Nor  raise  the  roof-tree  of  Deceits,  nor  lay 

Fresh  rafters  on  the  clay; 
Broken  thy  House  is.  and  the  ridge-pole  split! 

Delusion  fashioned  it  I 
Safe  pass  I  thence. 

That  is,  he  has  outpassed  all  further  trans- 
migration, and  in  due  time  will  be 


458  EDWIN  AKNOLD. 

Aroused  and  sane 
As  is  a  man  wakened  from  hateful  dreams : 
Until — greater  than  Kings,  than  Gods  more  glad — 
The  aching  craze  to  live  ends,  and  Life  glides, 
Lifeless,  to  nameless  Quiet,  nameless  Joy, 
Blessed  Xikvaxa — sinless,  stirless  Eest— 
That  change  which  never  changes. 

The  seventh  Book  touches  briefly  upon  the 
first  few  weeks  or  months  of  the  mission  of 
Buddha;  tells  how  the  seven  years  since  he 
had  set  out  on  his  journeyings  had  passed  at 
his  old  home ;  until  at  last  tidings  reach  the 
royal  Court  that  the  wanderer  has  become  a 
Buddh.  The  King  sends  messengers  to  him 
urging  him  to  return.  He  accedes  to  this  ur- 
gency, and  comes  back,  still  wearing  the 
yellow  robe  of  a  mendicant,  and  carrj' ing  the 
beggar's  bowl  for  offerings  of  food. — The 
eighth  and  last  Book  gives  the  sublime  dis- 
course of  Buddha  in  which  he  speaks  first  of 
the  mysteries  of  Amitaya,  the  "Immeasur- 
ble:" 

THE   IMMEASURABLE. 

Oh  Amitaya!  Measure  not  with  words,  the  Im- 
measurable: nor  sink  the  string  of  Thought 

Into  the  Fathomless.  Who  asks  doth  err;  who 
answers  errs.     Say  naught. 

The  Books  teach  Darkness  was.  at  first  of  all,  and 
Brahm,  sole  meditating  in  that  night: 

Look  not  for  Bi-ahm  and  the  Beginning  there! 
Nor  him,  nor  any  light. 

Shall  any  gazer  see  with  mortal    eyes,   or  any 

searcher  know  by  mortal  mind ; 
Veil  after  veil  will  lift;  but  there  must  be  veil 

upon  veil  behind.  .  ,  . 

This  is  enough  to  know — the  Phantasms  are;  the 
Heavens,  Earths,  Worlds,  Changes  changing 
them — 

A  mighty  whirling  wheel  of  Strife  and  Stress, 
which  none  can  stay  or  stem. 


I 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  450 

Pray  not!  the  Darkness  will  not  brighten!  Ask 
naught  from  the  Silence,  for  it  cannot  speak ! 

Vex  not  your  mournful  minds  with  pious  pains ! 
Ah,  Brothers,  Sisters,  seek 

Naught  from  the  helpless  gods  by  gift  or  hymn; 

nor  bribe  with  blood,  nor  feed  with  fruit  and 

cakes : 
Within    yourselves  Deliverance  must  be  sought; 

each  man  his  prison  makes. 

Each  hath  such  lordship  as  the  loftiest  ones;  nay, 
for  with  Powers  above,  around,  below, 

As  with  all  flesh  and  whatsoever  lives,  Act  mak- 
eth  Joy  and  Woe,  .  .  . 

Higher  than  Indra's  ye  may  lift  your  lot;  and  sink 

it  lower  than  the  worm  or  gnat: 
The  end  of  many  myriad  lives  is  this;  the  end  of 

myriads  that. 

Only,  while  turns  this  wheel  invisible,  no  pause, 
no  peace,  no  staying-place  can  be : 

Who  mounts  will  fall,  who  falls  may  mount;  the 
spokes  go  round  unceasingly! 

If  ye  lay  bound  upon  the  wheel  of  Change,  and  no 
way  w^ere  of  breaking  from  the  chain. 

The  heart  of  boundless  Being  is  a  curse ;  the  Soul 
of  Things  fell  Pain. 

Ye  are  not  bound!    The  Soul  of  Things  is  sweet; 

the  Heart  of  Being  is  celestial  Rest; 
Stronger  than  Woe  is  Will:  that  which  was  Good 

doth  pass  to  Better — Best. 

The  idea  of  Dharma,  or  Universal  Law,  is 
perhaps,  the  fundamental  feature  of  the 
Buddhist  philosophy,  corresponding  in  a 
measure  with,  but  going  beyond,  the  Greek 
idea  of  Moira  or  Fate,  to  which  the  gods 
themselves  were  subject.  To  express  the 
thought  in  modern  phrase  Dharma  is  not  a 
Being  so  much  as  a  Principle,  a  Force,  a 
Power,  and  so  is  altogether  different  from 
our  conception  of  God.     Yet,  as  we  under- 


460  EDWIN  ARNOLD. 

stand  it,  Buddhism  recognizes  no  other  God 
than  this  Dharnia. 

DIIAEMA. 

Before  Beginnmg,  aiul  without  an  End,  as  Space 

eternal'  and  as  Surety  sure, 
Is  fixed  a  Power  divine,  which  moves  to  good : 

only  its  Laws  endure. 

This  is  its  touch  upon  the  blossomed  rose;  the 
fashion  of  its  hand-shaped  lotus-leaves, 

In  dark  soil  and  the  silence  of  the  seeds,  the  robe 
of  Spring  it  weaves.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  dark  it  wrought  the  heart  of  man;  out 
of  dull  shells  the  pheasant's  pencilled  neck. 

Ever  at  toil,  it  brings  to  loveliness,  all  ancient 
wrath  and  wreck,  .  .  . 

The  ordered  music  of  the  marching  orbs  it  makes 

in  viewless  canopy  of  sky; 
In  deep  abyss  of  earth  it  hides  up  gold,  sards, 

sapphires,  lazuli.  .  .  . 

It  slayeth  and  it  saveth,  nowise  moved    except 

unto  the  working  out  of  doom. 
Its     threads  are  Love  and  Life,  and  Death  and 

Pain  the  shuttles  in  its  loom.  .  .  . 

Unseen,  it  helpeth  ye  with  faithful  hands;  un- 
heard, it  speaketh  stronger  than  the  storm. 

Pity  and  Love  are  man's,  because  long  stress 
moulded  blind  mass  to  form,  .  ,  . 

It  seeth  everywhere,  and  marketh  all.     Do  right, 

it  recompenseth ;  do  one  wrong. 
The  equal   retribution    must    be    made,   though 

Dharmd  tarry  long. 

It  knows  not  Wratli  nor  Pardon:  utter-true  its 
measures  mete,  its  faultless  balance  weighs. 

Times  are  as  naught;  to-morrow  it  will  judge,  or 
after  many  days,  .  .  . 

Such  is  the  Law  which  moves  to  righteousness, 
which  none  at  last  can  turn  aside  or  stay: 

The  heart  of  it  is  Love,  the  end  of  it  is  Peace  and 
Consummation  sweet. — Obey  1 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  4G1 

The  doctrine  of  the  Karmd  is  essentially 
that  the  life  of  each  man  is  the  outcome  of  all 
his  former  lives  throughout  all  his  transmi- 
grations. ' '  Bygone  wrongs  bring  forth  sor- 
rows and  woes;  bygone  right  breeds  bliss. 
Mans  reaps  what  he  has  sown. " 

KAIIMA. 

This  is  the  doctrine  of  the  Karmd:  Learn!    only 

when  all  the  dross  of  sin  is  quit, 
Only  when  Life  dies  like  a  white  flame  spent, 

Death  dies  along  with  it. 

Say  not  "  I  am,"  "  I  was,"  or  "  I  shall  be;  "  think 
not  ye  pass  from  house  to  house  of  flesh, 

Like  travellers  who  remember  and  forget,  ill- 
lodged  or  well-lodged.     Fresh 

Issues  upon  the  Universe  that  sum  Avhich  is  the 

lattermost  of  lives.     It  makes 
Its  habitation  as  the  worm   spins  silk,  and  dwells 

therein.     It  takes 

Function  and  substance,  as  the  snake's  egg 
hatched,  takes  scale  and  fang;  as  feathered 
reed-seeds  fly 

O'er  rock  and  loam  and  sand,  until  they  find  their 
marsh,  and  multiply. 

Also  it  issues  forth  to  help  or  hurt.     When  Death 

the  bitter  murderer  doth  smite. 
Red  roams  the  unpurgcd  fragment  of  him,  driven 

on  wings  of  plague  and  blight. 

But  when  the  mild  and  just  die,  sweet  airs 
breathe ;  the  world  grows  richer,  as  if  desert 
stream 

Should  sink  away  to  sparkle  up  again,  purer  with 
broader  gleam. 

So  Merit  won  winneth  the  happier  age,  which  by 
Demerit  halteth  short  of  end. 

Yet  must  this  Law  of  Love  reign  King  of  all,  be- 
fore the  Kalpas  end. 

iViirmwa— which,  whatever  it  may  be  or 
not  be,  is  the  very  antithesis  of  Annihilation 
—is  the  ultimate  goal  and  end  of  ail  human 


462  EDWIN  AENOLD. 

being.  It  is  to  be  attained  by  mastering  the 
"Four  Noble  Truths,"  treading  tlie  successive 
stages  of  progress,  and  slaying  the  "Ten 
Chief  Sins,"  by  which  Buddha  was  tempted 
under  ' '  the  Tree  of  Life. "  This  state  of  being 
is  described  negatively,  not  positively.  We 
are  not  told  what  it  is,  but  merely  what  it  is 
not: 

NIRVANA. 

As  one  who  stands  on  yonder  snowy  horn,  havi.ig 
naught  o'er  him  but  the  boundless  bhie, 

So,  these  sins  being  slain,  the  man  is  come  Nir- 
vana's verge  unto. 

Him  the  Gods  envy  from  their  lower  seats;  him 
the  Three  Worlds  in  ruin  should  not  shake : 

All  Life  is  lived  for  him,  all  Deaths  are  dead. 
Karma  no  more  will  make 

New  houses.  Seeking  nothing,  he  gains  all;  fore- 
going Self,  the  Universe  grows  "  I." 

If  any  teach  Nirvana  is  To  Cease,  say  unto  such, 
they  lie. 

If  any  teach  Nirvana  is  To  Live,  they  err;   not 

knowing  this, 
Nor  what  Light  shines  beyond  their  broken  lamps, 

nor  lifeless,  timeless  Bliss. 

Enter  the  Path !  There  is  no  grief  like  Hate ;  no 
pains  hke  Passions;  no  deceits  like  Sense! 

Enter  the  Path !  far  hath  he  gone  whose  foot  treads 
down  one  fond  offence. 

Enter  the  Path !  There  spring  the  healing  streams 
quenching  all  thirst !  There  bloom  the  im- 
mortal flowers 

Carpeting  all  the  way  with  joy!  There  throng 
swiftest  and  sweetest  hours ! 

The  Poem  tells  briefly  of  the  more  special 
teachings  of  Buddha  during  the  remaining 
forty-five  years  of  his  human  life;  how  in 
many  lands  and  many  tongues  he  gave  Light 
to  Asia,  and  how  in  the  fulness  of  time  he 
died, 


1 


EDWIN  ARNOLD.  463 

Even  as  a  man  'mongst  mon,  fnliilling  all; 
And  how  a  thousand-tlionsand  Crors  since  then 
Have  trod  the  path  which  leads  ■svhithei-  he  went 
Unto  Nirvana  where  the  Silence  lives. 

The  following  poem  needs  a  word  of  expla- 
nation: "  As^ai^i "  is  a  Mohammedan  festival, 
corresponding  somewhat  to  our  Easter. 

AFTER  DEATH  IN   ARABIA. 

He  who  died  (it  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends: 

Faithful  friends!    It  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  et)kl  as  snow; 
And  ye  say,  "  Abdallah's  dead! " 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head. 
I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
I  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers; 
Yet  I  smile,  and  whisper  tliis: 
/am  not  the  thing  you  kiss; 
Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie; 
It  was  mine,  it  is  not  /. 

Sweet  friends !    What  the  women  lave 
For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave, 
Is  but  a  hut  which  I  am  quitting; 
Is  a  garment  no  more  lifting; 
Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 
Like  a  hawk,  my  Soul  hath  past. 
Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room — 
The  wearer,  not  the  garb — the  i)lume 
Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 
Which  kept  him  from  those  splendid  stars. 

Loving  friends!     Be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye : 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear-. 
'Tis  an  empty  sea-shell — one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone; 
The  Shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there; 
The  Pearl,  the  All,  the  Soul,  is  here. 
'Tis  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  loved  Him:  let  it  lie! 


404  MATTnEW  AKNOLD. 

Let  tlie  shard  be  earth's  once  more, 
Siuce  the  gold  shines  iu  His  store! 

Allah  glorious !     Allah  good ! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends. 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  unspoken  bliss  instead. 
Lives  and  loves  you;  lost,  'tis  true. 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you; 
But  in  the  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfilled  felicity, 
In  enlarging  Paradise, 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends!    Yet  not  farewell; 
Where  I  am,  ye  too  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  your  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space. 
When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepped 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all,  and  tltere  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain — 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain: 
Only  not  at  death;  for  death. 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love. 
Viewed  from  Allah's  throne  above; 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home ! 
La  Allah  ilia  Allah !  yea! 
Thou  Love  divine!  thou  Love  alway! 

He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 

4-RNOLD,  Matthew,  an  English  poet  and 
essayist,  the  son  of  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold  of 
Rugby,  born  Dec.  24,  1822.  He  studied  in 
several  schools,  lastly  at  Balliol  College,  Ox- 
ford, of  which  he  was  elected  scholar  in  ISiO; 
and  gained  the  Newdigate  prize  for  English 
verse  in  1843,  his  subject  being  Cromivcll. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  105 

He  graduated  with  honors;  and  from  1847  to 
1851  acted  as  private  secretary  to  Lord  Lans- 
downe.  After  about  1848,  Matthew  Arnold 
beeanae  a  frequent  contributor  to  current  lit- 
erature, at  first  mainly  in  verse ;  afterwards 
more  usually  in  prose.  In  1857  he  was  elected 
Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford,  a  position 
which  he  held  for  the  ensuing  ten  years,  dui-- 
ing  which  he  wrote  and  published  no  little 
prose  and  verse.  A  favorable  specimen  of  his 
verse  is  the  following,  from  Tristram  and 
Yseult  : 

CHILDREX   ASLEEP. 

They  sleep  in  sheltered  rest 
Like  helpless  birds  in  the  warm  nest, 

On  the  castle's  southern  side, 
Where  feebly  comes  the  mournful  roar 

Of  buffeting  wind  and  surging;  tide 
Through  many  a  room  and  corridor. 
Full  on  their  window  the  moon's  ray 
Makes  their  chamljcr  l)right  as  day; 
It  shines  upon  the  blank  white  walls, 
And  on  the  snowy  pillow  falls, 
And  on  two  angel  heads  doth  play; — 
Turned  to  each  other — the  eyes  closed, 
The  lashes  on  the  clieeks  reposed 
Eound  each  brow  the  cap  close-set, 

Hardly  lets  peep  the  golden  hair; 

Through  the  soft-opened  lips  the  air 
Scarcely  moves  the  coverlet. 
One  little  wandering  arm  is  thrown 

At  random  on  the  counterpane, 
And  often  the  fingers  close  in  haste 
As  if  their  baby  owners  chased 

The  butterflies  again. 

Some  of  the  poems  touch  pleasantly  upon 
themes  common  to  all  versifiers.  As  this,  of 
which  only  a  part  of  the  stanzas  are  quoted : 

LINES   AVEITTEN   IX   KEXSINGTON   GARDEN. 

In  this  lone  open  glade  f  lie, 
.Screened  by  deep  houglis  on  either  hand. 


im  MATTJIEW  ARNOLD. 

And  at  its  head  to  stay  the  eye, 
Those  dark-crowned,  red-boled  pine-trees  stand. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass ! 

What  endless  active  life  is  here! 
What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass! 

An  air-stirred  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

In  the  huge  world  which  roars  hard  by 

Be  others  happy  if  they  can; 
But  in  my  helpless  cradle,  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

I,  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurled, 

Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave, 
That  Peace  has  left  the  upper  world, 

And  now  keejis  only  in  the  grave. 

Yet  here  is  Peace  forever  new! 

When  I,  who  watch  them,  am  away, 
Still  all  tilings  in  this  glade  go  through 

The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

Calm  Soul  of  all  things!  make  it  mine 

To  feci,  amid  tlie  city's  jar, 
That  there  aljides  a  peace  of  thine, 

Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar. 

The  will  to  neither  strivte  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others,  give! 

Calm,  calm  me  more;  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 

Matthew  Arnold's  pi'ose  writings  cover  a 
wide  field  in  nianifoid  departments,  the  theo- 
logical element  being  rather  predominant. 
Thus  we  have  St.  Paid  and  Profestantism 
(1870) ;  Literature  and  Dogma  (1873) ;  Last 
Essays  on  Church  and  Religion  (1877) ;  L'ish 
Essays,  and  others  (1882). — In  1884  he  made  a 
tour  in  America,  delivering  several  discourses, 
some  of  which  embody  his  best  and  most  ma- 
tured thought.  One  of  these  discourses  bears 
the  title.  Numbers :  or,  the  Majority  and  the 
Remnant.  He  takes  jiartially  as  a  text  the 
saying  of  Isaiah,  "Though  thy  people  Israel 
be  as  the  sand  of  the  sea,  only  a  remaant  of 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  -]07 

them  shall  return."  After  speaking  of  this 
"  remnant "  as  existing  in  various  ancient  and 
modern  peoples,  he  thus  applies  the  teaching 
to  the  United  States  of  America : 

THE   EEJIJfANT  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES. 

In  these  United  States  you  are  fifty  millions  and 
more.  I  suppose  that,  as  in  England,  as  in  France, 
as  everywhere  else,  so  likewise  here,  the  majority 
of  the  peoi)le  doubt  very  much  whether  the  major- 
ity is  unsound;  or,  rather,  they  have  no  doubt  at 
all  about  the  matter — they  are  sure  that  it  is  not 
unsound.  But  let  us  consent  to-night  to  remain 
to  the  end  in  the  ideas  of  the  sages  and  prophets 
whom  we  have  been  following  all  along,  and  let 
us  suppose  that  in  the  present  actual  stage  of  the 
world,  as  in  all  the  stages  through  which  the 
world  has  past  hitherto,  the  majority  ))e  in  general 
unsound  everywhere.  Where  is  the  failure?  I  sup- 
pose that  in  a  democratic  community  like  this — 
with  its  newness,  its  magnitude,  its  strength,  its 
life  of  business,  its  sheer  freedom  and  ecjuality — 
the  danger  is  in  the  absence  of  the  discii^line  of 
respect;  in  hardness  and  materialism,  exaggera- 
tion and  boastfulness;  in  a  false  smartness,  a 
false  audacity,  a  want  of  soul  and  delicacy. 
"Whatsoever  things  are  elevatecV — Whatsoever 
things  are  noble,  serious,  have  true  elevation — 
that,  perhaps,  in  our  mind  is  the  maxim  which 
points  to  where  the  failure  of  the  unsound  major- 
ity, in  a  great  democracy  like  yours,  will  i^robably 
lie.  At  any  rate,  let  us  for  the  moment  agree  to 
suppose  so.  And  the  philosophers  and  the  pi-oph- 
ets — whom  I  at  any  rate  am  disposed  to  believe — 
and  who  say  that  moral  causes  govern  the  stand- 
ing and  the  falling  of  states,  will  tell  us  that  the 
failure  to  mind  whatsoever  things  are  elevated 
must  impair  with  an  inexorable  fatality  the  life  of 
a  nation,  just  as  the  failure  to  mind  whatsoever 
things  are  just,  or  whatsoever  things  are  pure, 
will  impair  it;  and  that  if  the  failure  to  mind 
whatsoever  things  are  elevated  should  be  real  in 
your  American  democrai^y,  and  should  grow  into 
a  disease,  and  take  firm  hold  on  you,  then  the  life 


468  MATTHEW  AKN(^LU. 

of  even  these  great  United  States  must  incvitiibly 
be  impaired  more  and  more  until  it  perisli. 

Tlien  from  tliis  hard  doctrine  we  will  betake 
ourselves  to  the  more  comfortable  doctrine  of  iJic 
reumant.  "The  remnant  shall  return;"  shall 
convert  and  be  healed  itself  first,  and  shall  then 
recover  the  unsound  majority.  And  you  are  fifty 
millions,  and  growing  apace.  What  a  remnant 
yours  may  be  surely  I  A  remnant  of  how  great 
numbers,  how  mighty  strength,  how  irresistible 
eflScacy  I  Yet  we  must  not  go  too  fast,  either,  nor 
make  too  sure  of  our  efficacious  remnant.  Mere 
multitudes  will  not  give  us  a  saving  lemnant  with 
certainty.  The  Assyrian  empire  had  multitude, 
the  Eoman  empire  had  multitude  I  yet  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  could  produce  a  sufficing  rem- 
nant, any  more  than  Athens  or  Judah  could  pro- 
duce it;  and  both  Assyria  and  Home  perished 
like  Athens  and  Judah. 

But  you  are  something  more  than  a  jseople  of 
fifty  millions.  You  are  fifty  millions  mainly 
sprung — as  we  in  England  are  mainly  sprung — 
from  that  German  stock,  which  has  faults  indeed 
— faults  which  have  diminished  the  extent  of  its 
inlluence,  diminished  its  power  of  attraction,  and 
the  interest  of  its  history.  Yet  of  that  German 
stock  it  is,  I  think  true — as  my  father  said  more 
than  fifty  years  ago — that  it  has  been  a  stock  "  of 
the  most  moral  races  of  men  that  the  world  has 
yet  seen,  with  the  soundest  laws,  the  least  violent 
passions,  the  fairest  domestic  and  civil  virtues." 
You  come,  therefore,  of  about  the  best  parentage 
which  a  modern  nation  can  have. 

Then  you  have  had,  as  we  in  England  have  alsc 
had — but  more  entirely  than  we  and  more  exclu- 
sively— the  Puritan  discipline.  Certainly  I  am 
not  blind  to  the  faults  of  that  discii)line.  Cer- 
tainly I  do  not  wish  it  to  remain  in  possession  o* 
the  field  forever,  or  too  long.  But  as  a  stage  and 
a  discipline,  and  as  means  for  enabling  that  poor, 
inattentive  and  immoral  creature,  man,  to  love 
and  appropriate,  and  make  part  of  his  being,  di- 
vine ideas,  on  which  he  could  not  otherwise  have 
laid  or  kept  hold,  the  discipline  of  Turitanism  has 
been  invaluable;  and  the  more  I  read  history,  the 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  409 

more  I  see  of  mankind,  the  more  I  recognize  its 
value. 

Well,  then,  you  are  not  merely  a  multitude  of 
fifty  millions;  you  are  fifty  millions  sprung  from 
this  excellent  Germanic  stock,  having  passed 
through  this  excellent  Puritan  discipline,  and  set 
in  this  enviable  and  unbounded  cf)untry.  Even 
supposing,  therefore,  that  by  the  necessity  of 
things  your  majority  must  in  the  present  stage  of 
the  world  probably  be  unsound,  what  a  remnant, 
I  say — what  an  incomparable,  all-transforming 
remnant — you  may  fairly  hope,  with  your  number 
— if  things  go  happily — to  have. 

Matthew  Arnold  visited  America  not  very 
long  after  the  death  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emer- 
son ;  and  he  delivered  a  discourse,  afterwards 
printed,  upon  the  philosopher  and  poet  of 
Concord.  The  two  men  had  certainly  very 
much  in  common  in  the  fibre  of  their  minds. 
Perhaps  for  that  very  reason  Arnold  was  not 
the  man  best  fitted  to  take  the  measure  of 
Emerson ;  but  he  has  certainly  done  his  best 
in  this  regard.  We  quote  certain  character- 
istic passages. 

MATTHEW  AKNOLD  UPON  EMERSON. 

And,  in  truth,  one  of  the  legitimate  poets,  Em- 
erson, in  my  opinion,  is  not.  His  poetry  is  inter- 
esting, it  makes  one  think;  but  it  is  not  the  poetry 
of  one  of  the  born  poets.  I  say  it  of  him  with  re- 
luctance, although  I  am  sure  that  he  would  have 
said  it  of  himself;  but  I  say  it  with  reluctance, 
because  I  dislike  giving  pain  to  his  admirers,  and 
because  all  my  own  wish,  too,  is  to  say  of  him 
what  is  favorable.  But  I  regard  myself  not  as 
speaking  to  please  Emerson's  admirers,  not  as 
speaking  to  please  myself;  but  rather,  as  commun- 
ing with  Time  and  Nature  concerning  the  pro- 
ductions of  this  beautiful  and  rare  spirit.  .  .  . 

Milton  says  that  poetry  ought  to  be  simple,  sen- 
suous, impassioned.  Well,  Emerson's  poetry  is 
seldom  either  simple,  or  sensuous,  or  impas- 
sioned.    In  general   it  lacks  directness;  it   lacks 


470  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

correctness;  it  lacks  energy.  His  grammar  is 
often  embarrassed;  in  particular,  the  want  of 
clearly  marked  distinction  between  the  subject 
and  the  object  of  his  sentence  is  a  frequent  cause 
of  obscurity  in  him.  A  poem  which  shall  be  a 
plain,  forcible,  inevital)le  whole  he  hardly  ever 
produces.  Such  good  work  as  the  noble  lines 
graven  on  the  Concord  Monument  is  the  excep- 
tion with  him;  such  ineffective  work  as  the  Fourth 
of  July  Ode  or  the  Boston  Hymn  is  the  rule.  Even 
passages  and  single  lines  of  thorough  plainness 
and  commanding  force  are  rare  in  liis  poetry. 
They  exist,  of  course;  but  when  we  meet  with 
them  they  give  us  a  sense  of  surprise,  so  little  has 
Emerson  accustomed  us  to  them.  .  .  . 

I  do  not,  then,  place  Emerson  among  the  great 
poets.  But  I  go  further,  and  say  that  I  do  not 
place  him  among  the  great  writers,  the  great  men 
of  letters.  Who  are  the  great  men  of  letters  ? 
They  are  men  like  Cicero,  Plato,  Bacon,  Pascal, 
Swift,  Voltaire — writers  with,  in  the  first  place, 
a  genius  and  instinct  for  style;  writer.s  whose 
prose  is  by  a  kind  of  native  necessity  true  and 
sound.  Now  the  style  of  Emerson,  like  the 
style  of  his  transcendentalist  friends,  and  of  T/ie 
Dial,  so  continually — the  style  of  Emerson  is  ca- 
pable of  falling  into  a  strain  like  this,  which  I  take 
from  the  beginning  of  his  essay  on  Love  :  "  Every 
soul  is  a  celestial  being  to  every  other  soul.  The 
heart  has  its  sabbaths  and  jubilees,  in  which  the 
world  appears  as  a  hymeneal  feast,  and  all  the 
natural  sounds  and  the  circle  of  the  seasons  are 
erotic  odes  and  dances."  Emerson  altered  this 
sentence  in  the  later  editions.  Like  Wordsworth, 
he  was  in  later  life  fond  of  altering;  and  in 
general  his  later  alterations,  like  those  of  Words- 
worth, are  not  improvements.  He  softened  the 
passage  in  question,  however,  though  without 
really  mending  it.  I  quote  it  in  its  original  and 
strongly  mai'ked  form.  .  .  . 

Not  with  the  Miltons  and  Grays,  not  with  the 
Platos  and  Spinozas,  not  with  the  Swifts  and 
Voltaires,  not  with  the  Montaignes  and  Addisons, 
can  we  rank  Emerson.  His  work  of  different 
kinds — when  one  compares  it  with  the  work  done 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD.  471 

in  a  corresponding  kind  by  these  masters,  fails  to 
stand  tlie  comparison.  No  man  could  see  this 
clearer  than  liimself.  It  is  hard  not  to  feel  de- 
spondency when  we  contemplate  our  failures  and 
shortcomings;  and  Emerson,  the  least  self-tlattei- 
ing  and  the  most  modest  of  men,  saw  so  plainly 
what  was  lacking  to  him,  that  lie  had  his  moments 
of  despondency.  "  Alas,  my  friend,"  he  writes 
in  reply  to  Carlyle,  who  had  exhorted  him  to 
creative  work — "Alas,  my  friend,  1  can  do  no 
such  gay  thing  as  you  say.  I  do  not  belong  tu  the 
poets,  but  only  to  a  low  department  of  literature — 
the  reporters.  .  .  .  When  1  see  how  much  work  is 
to  be  done,  what  room  for  a  poet,  for  any  spirit- 
ualist, in  this  great,  intelligent,  sensual,  and  ava- 
ricious  America,  I  lament  my  fumbling   fingers 

and   stammering   tongue But   '  the   strong 

hours  conquer  us; '  and  I  am  the  victim  of  miscel- 
lany— misce.llany  of  designs,  vast  debility,  and 
procrastination."  .... 

And  now  I  think  I  have  cleared  uj)  the  ground. 
I  have  given  to  envious  Time  as  much  of  Emerson 
a«  Time  can  fairly  expect  ever  to  obtain.  We 
have  not  in  Emerson  a  great  poet,  a  great  writer, 
a  great  philosophy-maker.  His  relation  to  us  is 
not  that  of  one  of  those  personages;  yet  it  is  a  re- 
lation of,  I  think,  even  superior  importance.  His 
relation  to  us  is  more  like  that  of  the  Koman  em- 
peror, Marcus  Aurelius.  Marcus  Aurelius  is  not 
a  great  writer,  a  great  philosophy-maker;  he  is 
the  friend  and  the  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in 
the  spirit.  Emerson  is  the  same.  He  is  the 
friend  and  aider  of  those  who  would  live  in  the 
spirit.  All  the  points  in  thinking  which  are  nec- 
essary for  this  purpose  he  takes;  but  he  does  not 
combine  them  into  a  system,  or  present  them 
by  a  regular  philosophy.  Combined  in  a  sys- 
tem by  a  man  with  the  requisite  talent  for  this 
kind  of  thing,  they  would  be  less  useful  than  as 
Emerson  gives  them  to  us;  and  the  man  with  the 
talent  so  to  systematize  them  would  be  less  im- 
jiressive  than  Emerson.  They  do  very  well  as 
they  now  stand — like  "boulders" — as  he  says — ■ 
"  in  paragraphs  incompressible,  each  sentence  an 
infinitely  repellent  particle."     In  such  sentences 


472  THOMAS  ARNOLD. 

his  main  points  recur  again  and  again,  and  be- 
come fixed  in  the  memory.  .  .  . 

Happiness  in  labor,  righteousness  and  veracity ; 
in  all  the  life  of  the  spirit;  happiness  and  eternal 
hope:  that  was  Emerson's  gospel.  I  hear  it  said 
that  Emerson  was  too  sanguine ;  that  the  actual 
generation  in  America  is  not  turning  out  so  well 
as  he  expected.  Very  likely  he  was  too  sanguine 
as  to  the  near  future.  Very  possibly  the  present 
generation  may  prove  unworthy  of  his  high  hopes; 
even  several  generations  succeeding  this  may 
prove  unworthy  of  them.  But  by  his  conviction 
that  in  the  life  of  the  spirit  is  happiness,  and  by 
his  hope  that  this  life  of  the  spirit  will  come  more 
and  more  to  be  understood,  and  to  prevail,  and  to 
work  for  happiness: — by  this  conviction  and  ho]3e 
Emerson  was  great;  and  he  will  surely  prove  in 
the  end  to  have  been  right  in  them.  .  .  . 

Many  of  your  writers  are  over-sanguine,  and  on 
the  wrong  grounds.  But  you  have  two  men  who 
in  what  they  have  written  show  their  sanguine- 
ness  in  a  line  where  courage  and  hope  are  just, 
where  they  are  also  infinitely  important,  but  where 
they  are  not  easy.  Tliese  two  men  are  Franklin 
and  Emerson.  These  two  are,  I  think,  the  most 
distinctively  and  honorably  American  of  your 
writei's;  they  are  the  most  original  and  the  most 
valuable.  Wise  men  everywhere  know  that  we 
must  keep  up  our  courage  and  our  hope.  Franklin 
and  Emerson  maintained  theirs  with  a  convincing 
ease,  an  insynring  joy.  Franklin's  confidence  in 
the  happiness  with  which  industry,  honesty,  and 
economy  will  crown  the  life  of  this  work-day 
world  is  such  that  he  runs  over  with  felicity. 
With  a  like  felicity  does  Emerson  run  over  when 
lie  contemplates  the  hajjpiness  eternally  attached 
to  the  true  life  in  the  spirit.  You  cannot  jirize 
him  too  much,  nor  heed  him  too  diligently.  He 
has  lessons  for  both  branches  of  our  race.  To  us 
he  shows  for  guidance  his  lucid  freedom,  his 
cheerfulness  and  hope,  to  you  his  dignity,  deli- 
cacy, serenity,  devotion. 

ARNOLD,  Thomas,  D.D.,  an  English  edu- 
cator and  historian,  horn  at  Cowes,  Isle  of 


I 


THOMAS  ARNOLD.  473 

Wight,  Juno  13,  1795;  died  at  Rugby,  June 
12, 1843.  He  was  educated  at  various  schools, 
and  in  1811  was  elected  a  scholar  of  Corjius 
Cliristi  College,  Oxford ;  and  subsequently  a 
fellow  of  Oriel  College,  where  he  gained,  in 
1815  and  1817,  the  Chancellor's  prize  for  two 
University  essays,  the  one  in  Latin,  the  other 
in  English.  He  received  deacon's  orders  in 
1818;  married  soon  after,  and  took  up  his  resi- 
dence at  Lalehani,  where  he  devoted  himself 
for  nine  years  to  the  preparation  of  students 
for  the  great  Schools  and  the  Universities. 
In  1828  he  took  priest's  orders,  and  was  chosen 
to  the  head-mastership  of  Rugby  School, 
which,  under  his  rule,  rose  to  rank  with  the 
foremost  of  the  great  English  Schools.  Prob- 
ably no  English  educator  ever  exercised  so 
powerful  a  personal  influence  over  his  pupils 
as  did  Thomas  Arnold.  His  cardinal  princi- 
ple was  that  no  "black  sheep"  should  find 
place  at  Rugby.  "It  is  not  necessary,"  ho 
said,  "  that  this  should  be  a  school  of  three 
hundred,  or  one  hundred,  or  of  fifty  boys; 
but  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be  a  school  of 
Christian  gentlemen. "  In  1841,  still  retaining 
the  head-mastei"ship  of  Rugby,  he  was  made 
Regius  Professor  of  Modern  History  at  Oxford, 
and  delivered  an  inaugural  lecture,  whi(^h 
awakened  the  highest  anticipations  of  the  fu- 
ture which  lay  before  him  in  this  department. 
He  had  hardly  passed  middle  age,  and  his  ap- 
parently robust  frame  gave  every  indication 
that  he  would  attain  the  extremest  limit  of 
human  life.  But  on  the  evening  of  June  11, 
1842,  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  spasm  of  the 
heart,  and  died  early  the  next  morning. 
His  Life  and  Cor?'esponde«ce,  edited  by  Arthur 
Penrhyn  Stanley,  is  justly  esteemed  as  among 
the  best  of  English  biographies.  From  the  vo- 
luminous Correspondence  we  select  a  sin- 
gle passage,  written  near  the  close  of  his  life : 


474  THOMAS  ARNOLD. 

TAKING    LIFE    IN   EARNEST. 

1  meet  witli  a  great  many  persons  in  tlie  course 
of  a  year,  and  with  many  whom  I  admire  and  like ; 
iiut  what  I  feel  daily  more  and  more  to  need,  as 
life  every  year  rises  more  and  more  before  me 
in  its  true  reality,  is  to  have  intercourse  witli 
those  who  take  life  in  earnest.  It  is  very  painful  to 
me  to  be  always  on  the  surface  of  things ;  and  I  feel 
that  literature,  science,  politics,  many  topics  of 
far  greater  interest  than  mere  gossip  or  talking 
about  the  weather,  are  yet,  as  they  are  generally 
talked  about,  still  upon  the  surface;  they  do  not 
touch  the  real  depths  of  life.  It  is  not  that  I  want 
much  of  what  is  called;  religious  conversation; 
that,  I  believe  is  often, on  the  surface,  like  other 
conversation.  But  I  want  a  sign,  which  one 
catches  by  a  sort  of  masonry,  that  a  man  knows 
what  he  is  about  in  life;  w'hither  tending,  in  what 
cause  engaged ;  and  when  I  find  this,  it  seems  to 
open  my  heart  as  thoroughly,  and  witli  as  fresh  a 
sympathy,  as  when  I  was  twenty  years  younger. 

Arnold  published  several  volumes  of  Ser- 
7nons,  mainly  preached  at  Rugby;  wrote  the 
History  of  the  Later  Roman  Commonwealth; 
and  prepared  eight  Introductory  Lectures  on 
Modern  History,  which,  however,  were  not 
published  until  after  his  death.  We  quote  a 
single  passage  froi,n  these  Lectures : 

THE   SIEGE   OF   GENOA'  IN   1800. 

In  the  Autumn  of  1709  the  Austrians  had  driven 
the  French  out  of  Lombardy  and  Piedmont. 
Their  last  victory  of  FossanO.-or  Genola,  had  won 
the  fortress  of,  Coiii  or  Cuneo,  close  under  the 
Alps,  and  at  the  very  extremity  of  the  plain  of  the 
Po.  The  French  clung  to  Italy  only  by  their  hold 
of  the  Rivieri  of  Genoa — the  parrow. strip  of  coast, 
between  the  Apennines  and  the  sea;  which  ex- 
tends from  the  frontiers,  of  France  almost  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Arno.  Hither  the.  reiriains  of  the 
French  force  were  collected,  commanded  by  Gen- 
eral Massena,  and  the  point 'of  chief  importance  to 
bis  defence  was  the  city  of  Genoa. 

Napoleon  had   just  retiu-'ned  from  Egypt,   and 


THOMA«  ARNOLD.  475 

was  become  First  Consul;  but  he  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  take  the  field  until  the  follow in<i  Spring 
and  till  then  Massena  was  hopeless  of  relief  from 
without:  everything  was  to  depend  upon  his  own 
pertinacity.  The  strength  of  his  army  made  it  im- 
possible to  force  it  in  such  a  position  as  Genoa; 
but  its  very  numbers,  added  to  the  population  of  a 
great  city,  held  out  to  the  enemy  the  hope  of  re- 
ducing it  by  famine ;  and  as  Genoa  derives  most  of 
its  supplies  by  sea.  Lord  Keith,  the  British  naval 
Commander-in-Chief,  in  the  Mediterranean,  lent 
the  assistance  of  his  naval  force  to  the  Austrians ; 
and  by  the  vigilance  of  his  cruisers  the  whole 
coasting  trade  right  and  left  along  the  Kivicrawas 
ellectually  cut  off.  It  Avas  not  at  once  that  the  in- 
habitants of  a  great  city,  accustomed  to  the  sight 
of  well-stored  shops  and  an  abundant  market,  be- 
gan to  realize  the  idea  of  scarcity ;  or  that  the 
wealthy  classes  of  society,  who  have  never  known 
any  other  state  than  one  of  abundance  and  luxury, 
began  seriously  to  conceive  of  famine.  Lut  the 
shops  were  emptied,  and  the  storehouses  began  to 
be  drawn  upon,  and  no  fresh  supply,  or  hope  of 
supply,  appeared. 

Winter  passed  away,  and  Spring  returned,  so 
early  and  so  beautiful  on  that  garden-like  coast, 
sheltered  as  it  is  from  the  north  winds  by  its  belt 
of  mountains,  and  opened  to  the  full  range  of  the 
southern  sun.  Spring  returned,  and  clothed  the 
hillsides  with  its  fresh  verdure.  But  that  verdure 
was  no  longer  the  mere  delight  of  the  careless  eye 
of  luxury,  refreshing  the  citizens  with  its  liveli- 
ness and  softness  when  they  rotle  or  walked  up 
thither  from  the  city,  to  enjoy  the  surpassing 
beauty  of  the  prospect.  The  green  hillsides  were 
now  visited  for  a  very  different  object.  Ladies  of 
the  highest  rank  might  be  seen  cutting  up  every 
plant  which  it  was  possible  to  turn  to  food,  and 
bearing  home  the  common  weeds  of  our  roadsides 
as  a  most  precious  treasure. 

The  French  General  pitied  the  distress  of  the 
people;  but  the  lives  and  strength  of  his  garri- 
son seemed  to  him  more  important  than  the  lives 
of  the  Genoese;  and  such  provisions  as  re- 
mained were  i-eserved  in  the  first  place  for  the 


476  THOMAS  ARNOLD. 

French  army.  Scarcity  became  utter  want, 
and  want  became  famine.  In  the  most  gor- 
geous palaces  of  that  gorgeous  city,  no  less  than 
in  the  humblest  tenements  of  its  humblest  poor, 
death  was  busy.  Not  the  momentary  death  of 
battle  or  massacre,  nor  the  speedy  death  of  pesti- 
lence, but  the  lingering  death  of  famine.  Infants 
died  before  their  parents'  eyes;  husbands  and 
wives  lay  down  to  expire  together.  A  man  whom 
I  saw  at  Genoa  in  1825,  told  me  that  his  father 
and  two  of  his  brothers  had  been  starved  to  death 
in  this  fatal  siege.  So  it  went  on  till,  in  the 
month  of  June — when  Napoleon  had  already  de- 
scended from  the  Alps  into  the  plains  of  Lomliardy 
— the  misery  became  unendurable,  and  Massena 
surrendered.  But  before  he  did  so,  twenty  thou- 
sand innocent  persons,  old  and  young,  women  and 
children,  had  died  by  the  most  horrible  of  deaths 
which  humanity  can  endure. — Lectures  on  Modern 
llistor)/. 

The  greatest  work  which  Thomas  Arnold 
ever  hved  to  complete,  even  partially,  Avas  his 
History  of  Rome ;  and  that,  though  the  work 
of  the  scanty  leisure  of  several  years,  and 
extending  to  three  large  volumes,  is  but  a 
torso.  His  design  had  been  to  write  the  His- 
tory of  Rome  from  the  foundation  of  the  city 
until  the  fall  of  the  Western  Empire,  about 
400  A.D. ;  but  the  w'ork  was  brought  down 
only  to  the  close  of  the  second  Punic  War, 
about  200  B.C.  This  History  is  throughout 
brilliant  and  picturesque.  Its  most  striking 
passages  are  those  in  which  he  portrays  the 
characters  of  several  men  w'ho  played  notable 
parts  in  the  great  events  of  the  times. 

HANNIBAL,   THE  CAKTHAGENIAN. 

Ilannibal's  genius  may  be  likened  to  the  Hom- 
eric god,  who,  in  his  hatred  of  the  Trojans,  rises 
from  the  deep  to  rally  the  fainting  Greeks,  and  to 
lead  them  against  the  enemy;  so  the  calm  courage 
with  which  Hector  met  his  more  than  human  ad- 
versary in   his   country's   cause,  is   no   unworthy 


THOMAS  AliNOLD.  -177 

ima<;c  of  the  unyielding  magnanimity  displayed  by 
tlie  aristocracy  of  Rome.  As  Hannibal  utterly 
eclipses  Carthage,  so,  on  the  contrary,  Fabius, 
Marcellus,  Claudius,  Nero,  and  even  Scipio  him- 
self, are  as  nothing  when  compared  to  the  spirit 
and  wisdom  and  power  of  liomc.  The  Senate, 
which  voted  its  thanks  to  the  political  enemy, 
Varro,  after  his  disastrous  defeat,  because  he  had 
not  despaired  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  which 
forbore  either  to  solicit,  or  to  reprove,  or  to 
threaten,  or  in  any  way  to  notice  the  twelve  colo- 
nies which  had  refused  their  accustomed  supplies 
of  men  for  the  army,  is  far  more  to  be  honored 
than  the  conqueror  of  Zama. 

This  we  should  the  more  carefully  bear  in  mind, 
because  our  tendency  is  to  admire  individual 
greatness  far  more  than  national ;  and  as  no  single 
Eoman  will  bear  comparison  with  Hannibal,  we 
are  ai^t  to  murmur  at  the  event  of  the  contest, 
and  to  think  that  tlie  victory  was  awarded  to  the 
least  worthy  of  the  combatants.  On  the  contrary, 
never  was  the  wisdom  of  God's  providence  more 
manifest  than  in  the  issue  of  the  struggle  between 
Rome  and  Carthage.  It  was  clearly  for  the  good 
of  mankind  that  Hannibal  should  be  conquered. 
His  triumph  would  have  stopped  the  progress  of 
the  world.  For  great  men  can  only  act  penna- 
nently  by  forming  great  nations;  and  no  one  man 
— even  though  it  were  Hannibal  himself — can  in 
one  generation  effect  such  a  work.  But  where  a 
nation  has  been  merely  enkindled  for  awhile  by 
a  great  man's  sjiirit,  the  light  passes  away  with 
him  who  communicated  it;  and  the  nation,  when 
he  is  gone,  is  like  a  dead  body,  to  which  magic 
power  had  for  a  moment  given  an  unnatural  life ; 
when  the  charm  has  ceased,  the  body  is  cold  and 
stiff  as  before. 

He  who  grieves  over  the  battle  of  Zama  should 
carry  on  his  thoughts  to  a  j^eriod  thirty  years 
later,  when  Hannibal  must,  in  the  course  of  na- 
ture, have  bceu  dead,  and  consider  how  the  iso- 
lated Phoenician  city  of  Carthage  was  fitted  to  re- 
ceive and  to  consolidate  the  civilization  of  Greece, 
or  by  its  laws  and  institutions  to  bind  together 
barbaiians  of  eveiy  race  and  language  into  an  or- 


478  TlIOMAtt  AKNOLD. 

ganizeil  empire,  ami  pix'iiarc  thein  for  becominjj, 
when  that  empire  was  dissolved,  tlie  free  mem- 
bers of  tlic  Commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe. 
— History  of  Borne. 

Thomas  Arnold  was  beyond  all  doubt  a 
man  much  greater  than  any  or  all  of  his  pub- 
lished works.  Indeed  we  imagine  that  he 
must  have  begun  to  feel  that  there  was  higher 
work  for  him  to  do  than  to  Avrite  the  history 
of  those  Romans  who  had  lived  and  \vrought, 
whether  wisely  or  unwisely,  a  score  of  cent- 
uries before  his  time.  Nay,  that  there  was 
something  greater  for  him  to  do  than  to  be— 
as  he  certainly  was — the  ' '  Great  Schoolmas- 
ter" of  England.  In  one  of  his  letters  he 
speaks  of  a  work  which  he  had  in  contempla- 
tion : 

cukistia:n  politics, 

I  have  long  had  in  my  mind  a  work  on  Christian 
Politics,  or  the  application  of  the  Gospel  to  the 
state  of  man  as  a  citizen,  in  which  the  whole  ques- 
tion of  a  Eeligious  Establishment,  and  the  educa- 
tion proper  for  Christian  members  of  a  Christian 
Commonwealth  w'ould  naturally  llnd  a  place.  It 
would  embrace  also  an  historical  sketch  of  the 
])retendecl  conversion  of  the  Kingdoms  of  this 
World  to  the  Kingdom  of  Christ,  in  the  fourth 
and  fifth  centuries,  which  I  look  upon  as  one  of 
the  greatest  tours  dhidressa  that  Satan  ever 
played.  ...  I  mean  that  by  inducing  Kings  and 
nations  to  get  into  their  hands  the  direction  of 
Christian  Societies  he  has  in  a  great  measure  suc- 
ceeded in  keeping  out  the  peculiar  principles  of 
that  society  from  any  extended  sphere  of  opera- 
tion, and  insuring  the  asceudeucy  of  his  own. — 
Liffi  and  CorrcsiJondoice. 


// 


^vi 


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